


the crownless again shall be queen

by thundersnowstorm



Series: rhaenys of the north [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canonical Character Death, Drama, F/M, Female Friendship, Politics, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Romance, War of the Five Kings, What-If, Women Being Awesome, come for the obscure rarepair stay for the faux medieval politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-06 06:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersnowstorm/pseuds/thundersnowstorm
Summary: Over a hundred years after Cregan Stark's Pact of Ice and Fire, a Targaryen princess is married to a Stark lord in order to avert a war.Another war is won instead.





	1. ardet nec consumitur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this fic for six months and finally, finally, I am done. It's been quite the ride folks.
> 
> This mostly follows the books, with a few changes (other than the obvious). The characters are aged up like in the show, so Robb starts out the story at sixteen and Rhaenys at nineteen. There's no f!Aegon storyline, he's definitely dead, sorry. I took a few lines that I liked from the show, but otherwise assume everything is happening as it does in the books. This was kind of an exercise in seeing how things would change if Rhaenys survived, so I tried to keep the chain of events as logical as I could, although there's a few places where I just said fuck it and did as I liked, because life is short and I'm not GRRM.
> 
> I will be posting the rest of the chapters in increments of every few days, so look out for that. Enjoy!

_i. ardet nec consumitur - burned but not destroyed_

 

“If you complain one more time about the thrice-damned cold, I will feed you to the wolves Nymeria, don’t think I won’t.”

Nymeria Sand merely snorted at Rhaenys’s threat. “I will keep that in mind, cousin dearest. And when I’m done, I will gift you with a beautiful wolf’s pelt to keep you warm in this blasted wasteland they call a kingdom.”

“Yes, well, that blasted wasteland is soon to be my new home, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t mock it so constantly.”

Nymeria finally fell silent with a slight huff. She may have been one of the so-called Sand Snakes, deadly with a blade and twice as beautiful, but the woman had no tolerance for even the slightest physical discomfort. She had been complaining about the weather ever since they had left Dorne, unused to anything other than the dry heat of the deserts.

Rhaenys spurred her horse into a canter, relishing the bite of the wind against her cheeks, the way it tore through her hair and threatened to pull it loose from its braids. It was cold for sure, and she had never worn this much wool or fur in her life, but there was something familiar about it all. Dorne was as far away from the North one could get and still be in the Seven Kingdoms, but both had vast, austere landscapes that tested a person’s resolve.

Dorne had been home to Rhaenys for sixteen years now, but even as a young girl she had known she would have to leave one day. Her life had been the subject of contention ever since she had been spirited away to Dorne, war only just averted by the negotiations of Jon Arryn and Doran Martell. There were many in Dorne who would have been willing to fight for her right to the Iron Throne, lay down their lives in the name of a nearly-dead dynasty.

Rhaenys had not wanted that. All she had ever wanted was a safe, simple life spent with her cousins in Sunspear, growing old beneath the relentless Dornish sun. But as long as she threatened the Baratheon rule, that was an impossible dream.

And so here she was, the last princess of a dead dynasty, set to marry a stranger and replace the Targaryen name with a Stark cloak.

Rhaenys slowed her mare as she drew nearer to the king’s party. She trusted her uncle’s bannermen and their swords to keep her safe, the king’s less so. Even now, years after the war, the name Targaryen was spoken like a curse. The whisper of dragonspawn followed her everywhere, though King Robert was the only one who dared speak it to her face.

It was odd, to have none of her father’s features in her, but to carry all of his family’s sins. Rhaenys was Dornish through and through, with brown, sun-kissed skin, a slight build, and night-dark hair that fell to the small of her back. Only her eyes betrayed her name: a deeper purple than the Targaryens were known for, but purple just the same. But mostly it was the name that marked her, sure as a scar. Her name reminded Houses Lannister and Baratheon of Aerys’s madness, of her father’s foolishness, of their own failure in extinguishing the Targaryen line. She might have been naught but a child when her family fell, but her very existence was enough to inspire hatred and fear, guilt and scorn.

_“I would gladly let Oberyn give you the head of every man who so much as sneers at you,” her uncle Doran had promised just before she had boarded a ship at Sunspear. “But even he knows that all it would achieve is a pile of rotting heads and a new war. You must hold your head high; never forget that for all their glares and insults, you are still a princess of Dorne. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, that is what you must be. The blood of the Rhoynar and Old Valyria runs through your veins, and no one, not even the Usurper himself, can take that away from you.”_

And so, with dread pooling in her stomach, Rhaenys held her head high all the way through the gates of Winterfell.

The Martell party entered the courtyard after the royal party, just in time to see King Robert embrace a serious, grey-eyed man like an old friend. The man could be none other than Lord Stark, and though he had fought against her father in the Rebellion, she could not bring herself to hate him like she could hate the king. The Starks had lost much to her grandfather’s madness and to the war, and even Lyanna Stark, who some in Dorne blamed for the war, had been little more than a girl.

Oberyn Martell did little to hide his contempt for Eddard Stark, dark eyes narrowed dangerously, but Rhaenys shot her uncle a warning look. Even in a kingdom as far south as Dorne it was said Ned Stark was an honorable man, and his had been among the few voices that had protested the deaths of her mother and little Aegon.

Of his family, Rhaenys had heard less. Catelyn Stark’s Tully looks were distinctive, auburn hair braided in a simple Northern style, her hands clasped in front of her in elegant southron poise. Beside her was her perfect miniature, presumably Sansa, the oldest Stark girl, already striking at thirteen. The other girl, Arya, took after the Stark side of her family, dark hair and grey eyes. She whispered something to someone behind her, a boy who looked remarkably like a younger Eddard Stark. By the way he hung back and kept to himself, he had to be be the bastard son, the one stain upon the honorable Lord Stark’s reputation. Still, Rhaenys had been surprised to hear that he had been raised alongside his trueborn siblings, a tradition much more Dornish in nature than Northern.

The two younger Stark boys were staring in awe at the knights. They could only be Brandon and Rickon, though Rhaenys could not quite recall which was which. Regardless, neither was the one she was here to meet.

At six-and-ten, Robb Stark was tall, easily taller than her short stature, and broad shouldered. His russet curls had been combed back, revealing eyes bright as the sky. He bowed to a steely Cersei Lannister but could not help glancing over to where Rhaenys was dismounting.

Oberyn appeared by her side, his movements as quiet and graceful as his namesake. “Have heart,” he told her in a low voice. “And if the Stark boy says anything rude –”

“If the Stark boy says anything rude,” she interrupted, hooking her arm through his, “you will keep your mouth shut, because I can either marry him, or I can spend the rest of my life running from the king’s assassins. Be polite, uncle.”

King Robert gave them a dismissive glance. “Ah yes, the blushing bride. Robb Stark, meet the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. A pretty enough girl, though her blood can hardly be helped.” Rhaenys had to dig her nails into Oberyn’s arm deep enough to draw blood. For her sake or for his, she was not sure.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess Rhaenys.” Robb Stark bowed low, kissing her outstretched hand as was customary.

“And you, my lord.” Rhaenys sent a rare prayer up to the Mother, praying nobody could hear the rapid, panicky thump of her heart.

“Take me to your crypts, Ned,” declared the king, impatient with the niceties of introductions. “I would pay my respects.”

Rhaenys almost laughed at the stormy look on Queen Cersei’s face. Humiliating, it must be, to be passed up for a girl long-since buried. Lyanna Stark had been dead for six-and-ten years now, and her ghost still haunted the realm.

With the king and Lord Stark in the crypts, bows and curtsies were exchanged as a Martell bannerman made unnecessary introductions.

“Welcome to Winterfell, princess,” said Lady Stark. “And welcome to the North.”

Rhaenys gave her a polite smile. “It is a beautiful land, my lady. I’m sure I will grow to love it.”

“Quite different from Dorne, I can imagine,” said Lady Stark. Rhaenys got the uncomfortable impression she was being evaluated by the Lady of Winterfell. “But you will adjust, of course.”

She met the older woman’s gaze without flinching and nodded. “Just as you did, Lady Stark. Riverrun was your home once upon a time, was it not? I would love to hear stories of your time in the North, I’m sure there is plenty I have to learn from you.”

The smile she got from Catelyn Stark was small but genuine. Whatever her judgment had been, it seemed positive. Good. She needed her soon-to-be goodmother to like her if she was to learn anything about her future duties as Lady of Winterfell.

“Is that real sandsilk?” asked little Sansa, eyes glued onto Rhaenys’s outfit. She flushed, her courtesies returning to her. “Apologies, Princess Rhaenys, I didn’t mean to stare. We don’t see sandsilk this far north.”

“No apologies necessary, Lady Sansa.” The girl seemed sweet, if wide-eyed and young. “It is indeed.”

“It’s so pretty,” she gushed. “I’ve always wanted to try making a surcoat with sandsilk, but they say it’s a harder material to stitch than wool or linen.”

Arya and the youngest Stark boys were starting to get restless and fidgety, despite the subtle looks Lady Stark kept shooting them to stay in line.

“You like to sew?” Sansa nodded. “I brought a few extra bolts of sandsilk that I would be more than happy to gift you, with your lady mother’s permission of course. The only way to get better is by practice after all, and I’d love to help you with the surcoat.”

Sansa beamed and thanked her profusely. In all truth, it was a small gesture, as Rhaenys doubted she would get much use out of her old clothing here. She had begun wearing wool under her riding silks as they had passed through the Riverlands, but she would need an entirely new wardrobe with proper Northern clothes if she wanted to keep the ever-present chill at bay.

Robb cleared his throat awkwardly. “Princess Rhaenys, Prince Oberyn, the two of you must be tired after such a long journey. I can show you to your rooms if you’d like.”

“That would be much appreciated, my lord,” said Oberyn. “Would you mind if my paramour and daughter joined us?” He waved Ellaria and Nymeria over.

Rhaenys was going to kill her uncle.

At the mention of a paramour and a bastard child, Lady Stark’s smile had frozen into a polite grimace. Arya hid a giggle at her mother’s clear discomfort. Only Robb did not react, giving his assent, as if Oberyn Martell had ever needed permission to do anything in his life.

Under normal circumstances, Rhaenys would have loved to watch her uncle shock the sensibilities of the non-Dornish by flouting their standards of what was appropriate. Right now, however, all she needed from her uncle was to not offend her soon-to-be goodfamily into disliking her by proxy.

Ellaria mouthed an apology at Rhaenys before taking Oberyn’s arm, while Nymeria looked as though she was about to laugh. Rhaenys took Robb’s offered arm, maintaining a steady conversation of light pleasantries as he walked them to their chambers. Yes, the weather had been nice during their travels, no she was not hungry at the moment but thank you, yes, the journey had been long, but seeing Westeros had been a wonderful experience.

Once they reached her new chambers, Robb left them with a polite bow and the promise to see them at the feast tonight. Rhaenys watched him walk back down the hall before disappearing, a thousand questions burning inside her and unwilling to ask any of them.

Inside the chambers at last, Ellaria turned towards Oberyn. “What was that?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“What was what?” he asked innocently.

Nymeria snorted and draped herself across a chair by the crackling fire. Rhaenys joined her cousin with a sigh.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Ellaria told Oberyn. “You know what I’m talking about.”

For all the shocking stories that followed the Red Viper, his paramour was frankly the least outrageous thing about him. Ellaria Sand was a kind, level-headed woman, the closest thing Rhaenys had ever had to a mother. She had kissed her scraped knees as a child, counseled her through girlhood heartbreak, prepared her for her first moon’s blood. And for all that she loved Oberyn, she had never once let him get away with anything.

“What’s wrong with wanting to introduce the love of my life and my daughter to my niece’s future goodfamily?”

Ellaria raised an eyebrow. “As flattered as I am, you know what protocol in these situations dictates. And you know how stressed Rhaenys has been about meeting the Northerners.” Rhaenys coughed and examined the hemming on her sleeves with exaggerated interest. “As much as you enjoy shocking people, this is not the time for it.”

“It wasn’t just to shock their sensibilities,” insisted Oberyn, though he did look a bit apologetic. “I wanted to get a sense for what the Starks were like, see what their dynamic was.”

Ellaria rolled her eyes, but Rhaenys began to see what he meant. “Lady Catelyn was the most uncomfortable,” she mused. “It makes sense, seeing as she was raised in a proper southron household. I’m sure she also disapproves of her husband’s bastard being raised in Winterfell. I can imagine there is some family tension there. Sansa imitated her mother, she seems to be more southron than her sister Arya, who just seemed amused. And Robb Stark –” She bit her lip, unsure. “He didn’t react much. Either he’s very good at controlling his emotions, or he wasn’t as bothered. He and his half-brother must be similar in age, they’re likely close to each other.”

Oberyn spread his hands. “See? You know more about the Starks now than you did an hour ago.”

“Oh, don’t act so sanctimonious, Father,” said Nymeria, rolling her eyes. “We all know you mostly did it to get a rise out of them.”

Rhaenys rubbed her temples. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Uncle, please just try to behave, I can take care of figuring the Starks out on my own.” Lifting her arms over her head, she stretched, feeling the pop in her shoulders. “Nym, would you mind finding a maid to draw up a bath for me? I feel absolutely filthy.”

Nymeria nodded and stood, rolling to her feet in a long, lithe move. She moved like a dancer as she left the room, her elegance and flowing skirts concealing at least four knives. Rhaenys still wasn’t sure how her cousin, who could kill a man before he even felt the blade slip between his ribs, was going to pass as her handmaiden. But Obara would have been even worse at faking it, and Tyene was always loath to be parted from Arianne.

“I’m going to go find the little ones,” said Ellaria. “El said she’d keep her sisters out of trouble, but I have the distinct feeling that has not happened.” She gave Oberyn a chaste kiss and squeezed her niece’s shoulder before following Nymeria out the door.

Rhaenys and Oberyn were left alone in the room, the quiet broken only by the soft crackling of the hearth fire.

“You don’t have to marry the Stark boy.”

Rhaenys resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “We’ve been over this, uncle. Marrying Robb Stark is the most peaceful solution to the problem of the enmities between the kingdoms.” And to the problem of her continued existence. “Besides, there are worse men I could have been betrothed to.”

“There are other courses of action –”

“Enough, uncle. You know you will not change my mind on this.”

Oberyn sighed but seemed willing to concede this battle. If she had managed to out-debate Doran on this, he would not have better luck. So instead he switched to another of his favored past-times: reminiscing. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Elia had never married Rhaegar.”

Rhaenys started. Her uncle had told her a million stories of his childhood with her mother, but it was rare that he even utter her father's name. “What do you mean?”

Oberyn gave her a slight smile. “I’ve told you before how similar you are to your mother. Like you, she was quiet, reserved, and above all, kind. And of course, she had that stubborn Dornish pride all us Martells seem to have. But above all, Elia was dutiful. When our mother told her that she was to marry the prince, she simply nodded and asked when the wedding would be. Your birth almost killed her, but Rhaegar needed an heir, and so she gave him Aegon.” The light from the fire drew long shadows across his face, and he looked older than she could ever remember.

“Elia did her duty. And Elia died.”

“I am not my mother,” whispered Rhaenys, looking down at her hands, twisting the old ring she always wore. It had been her mother’s once, scarred bronze and chipped amber in the shape of a sun, one of the few things that had survived the Sack of King’s Landing. “I’m not – I will be safe here, I promise. Say what you will about the Starks, but they won’t let any harm come to me.”

Oberyn shook his head. “The Targaryens were once the strongest dynasty the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, and even they couldn’t protect Elia.”

It was odd, to hardly remember one’s own mother. Rhaenys had snatches of memories: a soft hand smoothing her hair down, bell-like laughter echoing down a long hall, a smile as warm as the sun. But none of that gave her a true picture of her mother. Oberyn and Doran might share sweet recollections of days playing as children with her, but none of it gave Rhaenys a sense of her mother’s character, of her hopes, her dreams, her secret fears.

What had been Elia Martell’s last thoughts before the Mountain broke down the door? Had she prayed to the Mother for mercy, to the Stranger for a quick death? Had she thought of her family? Or had she just been scared, scared of pain, scared of death?

“Nothing in this life is within our control,” Rhaenys muttered, hardly loud enough to be heard over the jumping flames. “That’s just a lie we tell ourselves to feel better about this world. Our lives are nothing more than the gods playing a game of cyvasse.”

“Is that what Nymeria of Ny Sar said before leading her people across the Narrow Sea?” Oberyn crossed his arms and leaned back. “Is that what your ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, said before torching the great castle of Harrenhal?”

“Ah, but you forget uncle, I was not named for Aegon, or for Nymeria. I was named for the first Rhaenys, who died tortured in Dorne. I was named for the second Rhaenys, the Queen who Never Was, whose corpse was so badly charred it was never truly identified.” She could not help the bitterness that seeped into her tone. “My legacy is blood and ashes, not some mythical greatness.”

“Cynicism isn’t a good look on you, dear niece. You’re too young for it.”

“Cynics tend to be right in the long run, I’ve noticed.”

“Only because they only ever set themselves up for failure. Predict tragedy and you shall become it.” Oberyn sighed, taking her hand in his own. The ring glinted a dark gold from her finger. “You learned sadness and grief from Doran and I, and I sorely regret that. You are young, you should be full of light, as your mother was at your age.”

Rhaenys snatched her hand away. “Perhaps if I was treated as something more than the shadow of my mother I would not have become as gloomy as one. Robb Stark is not Rhaegar, and I am not Elia Martell.”

Oberyn reeled back as though slapped. “I am sorry if you ever felt that way.” He picked his words with a care that seemed more Doran than him. “I merely meant –”

“I know what you meant.” Rhaenys stalked over to the window, refusing to meet her uncle’s gaze. It was going to rain soon. The storm clouds had been looming on the horizon for a long time, churning and ready to spill over. “I know you miss your sister, and I am sorry, but my curse is to miss a woman I never knew. My curse is to be hated for the crime of having a father I never knew. I am sick of being compared to people I never knew, sick of carrying their sins and their ghosts.”

Oberyn did not respond, unsure for once. He had once said that where he and many of his daughters ran hot, Rhaenys was more like Doran, with a cooler, more even temperament. Her anger just ran colder, icy as her new home, sharp as a shard of broken glass.

Nymeria reappeared, two Northern maids by her side carrying a large tub.

“Leave us, uncle,” said Rhaenys. She wasn’t sure if it was ire she felt coiling in her stomach, or regret.

…

The wedding took place two days after their arrival to Winterfell, days filled with a whirlwind of planning and last-minute gown adjustments.

Nymeria helped Rhaenys get ready, nimble fingers turning her hair into an elaborate cascade of braids and ruby-studded pins. Her gown was a brilliant crimson creation that clung to her torso before cascading to the ground in a full skirt and long, flared sleeves. A soft orange kirtle peaked through the slits in the gown, woven out of fine wool. Golden bracelets decorated her wrists, jangling with every move. The Martell sun and spear sigil hung from her neck on a simple gold chain, and as always, she wore her mother’s old ring on her left hand.

The belt at her waist was a nod to her Targaryen ancestry: supple black leather detailed with miniature dragons. Her maiden cloak had the full dragon sigil, but that would soon enough be replaced by a Stark cloak. She would accept it without complaint, but for all the trouble it had caused her, Rhaenys refused to forget her heritage.

Oberyn met her outside her new chambers, Ellaria and her little Sand Snakes by his side.

“I think you’re the prettiest princess in Westeros,” declared Obella. “Much prettier than that Myrcella.”

Nymeria suppressed a laugh. Rhaenys leveled a stern look at Obella. “Be nice,” she admonished. “Princess Myrcella is a perfectly nice girl. But thank you anyway, sweetling.” She mussed Obella’s hair, earning a gap-toothed smile in return. Dorea and Loreza, who looked rounder than usual with their many layers of wool, each demanded a hug, while Elia hung back, just old enough to think she was above showing affection. Still, there was a hint of a smile when Rhaenys kissed her cousin’s forehead.

Nymeria and Rhaenys didn’t exchange any words, but they had always communicated better without them. Nymeria brushed away a flyaway hair from Rhaenys’s forehead and gave her an uncharacteristically soft smile.

Ellaria stepped forward and enveloped Rhaenys in a warm hug, her lilac-scented perfume a familiar comfort. “Robb Stark won’t know what hit him when he sees you. There is no way he won’t fall in love instantly.”

Rhaenys was not quite so certain about that, but she appreciated the sentiment. Ellaria had always had a way of making her feel more optimistic.

She turned to Oberyn last of all, to where he hung back by the door.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” he said, his face a mask of contradictory emotions. “A true Dornish princess.”

Rhaenys swallowed. She did not regret her words from the other night, but she did not want to go to her own wedding with bad blood left between her and Oberyn.

“Uncle –” she began, but he shook his head.

“You were right,” he said with a sad smile. “I have looked far too much for Elia in you. And even though you have the best of her, you are also so much more. You do House Martell proud.”

Nymeria had lined her eyes in dark kohl, so Rhaenys could not let herself cry, but she blinked back a few tears nonetheless.

“Thank you, uncle, for everything,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She thought she spotted a tear, but it was wiped away by a quick hand.

“Don’t forget our words,” Oberyn said. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.”

After the wedding, she would be hard-pressed to remember any of the details of the ceremony, everything a convoluted rush of emotions. Following Northern custom, it took place in the godswood, and the words she had practiced countless times during the journey were spoken, not that she would remember them later. Her cloak of red and black was exchanged for one of grey and white, and just like that, she was married.

The feast was the same blur of confusion. She exchanged few words with Robb, nothing more than polite conversation. She ate little and drank less. By contrast, King Robert enjoyed himself plenty, his booming laughter carrying to every corner of the hall.

She had been tuning the king out for so long that when he started up the call for the bedding, she almost missed it.

Rhaenys was on her feet before she knew it, being pulled in several different directions at once. Somebody, maybe a Lannister, ripped the crimson silk in their haste to take it off. She had to grit her teeth to hold back an insult as a hand grabbed at her waist. Her kirtle was half undone when Oberyn appeared, glaring poison at everyone.

“Come on,” he said, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. Even drunk men knew better than to challenge the Red Viper.

Outside the chambers, Rhaenys undid the final laces in her kirtle and threw it in a random direction, eliciting several cheers from the men. She pasted a smile on her face and waved goodnight to the drunken crowd.

"If Robb Stark so much as raises a hand to you, I will cut him open neck to navel and damn the consequences," Oberyn promised her in a low voice.

"If Robb Stark so much as raises a hand to me," replied Rhaenys, "I will kill him myself."

Oberyn's eyes glinted with a dark pride. She pressed a final kiss to his cheek and slipped into the bedchamber.

The door slammed shut. Cheers and singing from the drunk wedding guests reverberated even through Winterfell’s thick stone walls. Dressed in nothing but her shift, she couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through her body.

Inside, Robb Stark had been stripped down to his breeches. “Are you alright?” he asked in a low voice. “Did any of the lords –”

“I’m fine,” interrupted Rhaenys, her voice knife-sharp.

She walked over to the vanity and began pulling at the braids and pins twisted into her hair.

A pin clattered to the floor. Her hands were trembling.

“Here, let me,” said Robb, and then his hands were in her hair, teasing the braids out, setting pins on the vanity table.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said in as even a tone as she could manage.

“Please, you can call me Robb.”

Once her hair was undone and her jewelry lay discarded on the vanity table, Rhaenys turned to face her husband. “Robb. Then if I may be so bold, may I ask for something?”

“You are my lady wife; anything that is mine is yours,” he said firmly.

Gods be good, that famed Stark honor ran true.

“I would ask you for your honesty,” said Rhaenys. “I won’t pretend to know you very well, we hardly just met, but if we are to be man and wife, all I ask is for you to always be honest with me. Keep a mistress if you’d like, but never lie to me, and I promise I will be a dutiful wife to you.”

Robb nodded, his gaze unflinching from hers. “I swear, by the old gods and the new, that I will never lie to you. And I would never dishonor you by taking a mistress, I can promise you that.”

 _Don’t make promises you can’t keep,_ Rhaenys wanted to say, but instead she stepped forward and pressed her lips to his.

In her years in Dorne, Rhaenys had only ever taken two lovers. The first had been a sweet-faced stable boy she had exchanged clumsy, orange-tinged kisses with. The second had been some distant cousin of the Santagars, a dark-eyed beauty with lips painted red as weirwood leaves.

No two lovers were alike. Robb’s kisses lacked a certain finesse, but he made up for it with an intensity that had Rhaenys digging her nails into his shoulders. His hands rested feather-light on her hips, so she whispered, “Go ahead, touch me however you’d like.”

Robb groaned against her lips. Somehow, they had ended up next to the bed, the backs of her knees pressed against the edge of the mattress. His hands skimmed up her sides, settling on the underside of her breasts.

The air rested heavy in the room, stirred only by the muffled sounds of the feast below and their own breathing. Rhaenys tilted her head back, sighing as Robb’s mouth moved down, biting at the junction of her neck and shoulder.

“Can I –?” he asked, holding the laces of her shift. She nodded, wordless.

Her shift now hanging open in a deep v, she pulled his head back up to recapture his lips. Desire bubbled beneath her skin, hot and insistent. Moving fast, she grabbed his shoulders to flip their positions, pushing against him until his knees gave out against the edge of the mattress. She climbed onto his lap, shift rucking up around her hips and exposing the strip of skin above her stockings. His body was hot against hers, the hard line of his cock insistent through his breeches

Rhaenys inhaled sharply as his hand settled on her bare thigh. The skin was rough, calloused, dragging against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh like sandpaper on silk. The first touch of his fingers between her legs came as a shock, and she let out a breathless curse. Robb chuckled, but she silenced him soon enough when she reached a hand down to guide his fingers in deeper.

“Let me help you,” she whispered against his lips.

His fingers were clumsy and unsure, but Robb Stark was an eager enough pupil, eyes locked on her face, watching every minute move, every uneven breath. Her climax came as a surprise, long, juddering shocks that left her boneless in his arms as he stroked her through it.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, earnest in his gaze.

She kissed him for that, then rolled them fully onto the bed. Robb hovered above her, unsure, before she pulled him close, hands tangling in his hair. Her shift was tossed first, then his breeches, and last of all their smallclothes. Finally, naked before only the gods and each other, he pushed inside, narrowing their worlds to nothing beyond their bodies.

They moved with hesitation at first, strangers still to each other’s bodies. Slowly, purposefully, momentum built, until Rhaenys had to grip Robb’s shoulders hard enough to hurt in order to keep from breaking apart into a million pieces.

Robb came with a groan, face buried in the crook of her neck. They lay there motionless for a moment; sweaty, sticky bodies pressed against each other. Then, the world returned, expanding beyond the immediacy of their bodies.

Robb opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Neither of them seemed to know what to say to the other. The silence had turned from comforting to oppressive, the reality of their new marriage crashing down around them. Husband and wife they might have been, but above of all, they were mostly strangers.

Rhaenys untangled herself from him and pulled the blankets up. Beside her, Robb did the same. Neither of them faced the other.

Sleep did not come easy that night.

…

Rhaenys woke to the glare of the dawn on her face. She groaned and rolled over, eyes still sleep-sticky.

Robb had fallen asleep on the other side of the bed, an enormous valley of space between their two bodies. In the early-morning glow, he seemed impossibly young next to her, even though only three years separated them. It was all she could do to not feel ancient some days, the weight of a dynasty on her shoulders, ghosts at her every step.

She rose, shadow-silent, and dressed. Her wedding dress was long gone, only the gods knew where, but a maid must have slipped in during the night, leaving a clean gown for her. The pale grey wool was heavy but soft to the touch, overlaid with white embroidery. Stark colors for the newest Stark. She tried not to be bitter about it and just appreciate the fine dress.

The cloak, dark wool edged in silvery fox fur, had been a wedding gift from Eddard Stark, she recalled. She had exchanged a few words with the Lord of Winterfell the previous night, a man as inscrutable as a deep lake. He was said to be a close friend of the king’s, but Rhaenys had never seen two men so different from each other. Her mind wandered for a moment, pondering on the rumors of the newest Hand of the King. If Eddard Stark was indeed to be the next Hand, it seemed her husband would be getting the responsibilities of Winterfell sooner than she had thought.

Apart from the earliest risers among the castle’s staff, the halls were all but empty. Rhaenys wandered them for a while, trying to learn the layout. Eventually she ended up in the courtyard, where the early morning frost gleamed against the dark stone. The air was cold enough to turn her breath to crystals and she pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

Towards the far wall, near the smithy, a man in white armor was swinging at a practice dummy with a shining blade. Rhaenys froze, but the man turned anyway upon hearing her footsteps. His blond hair had been slicked back against his head with sweat, sword hanging loosely from his hand.

“Princess Rhaenys.” Jaime Lannister’s voice was quiet but carried easily across the courtyard.

“Ser Jaime.” Rhaenys met his gaze coolly.

He cleared his throat. “My congratulations on your nuptials. Lord Robb is lucky to have you as a bride.”

“Like Prince Rhaegar was lucky to have my mother as a bride?”

Jaime flinched. “Princess, I –”

In the many moons it had taken to travel to Winterfell, Rhaenys had tried to avoid most of the royal retinue, but none more than Jaime Lannister. Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, those were all strangers, easy to hate. But Jaime had been with her family since before she could remember, her favorite out of the whole Kingsguard. He had been the one to sneak her apple tarts from the kitchen, to chase her around the Red Keep when Mother had been too tired to play.

Rhaenys had trusted Jaime as implicitly as any child of three could trust anyone. But when Gregor Clegane had come for Mother and Aegon, when Amory Lorch had come for her, Jaime Lannister had sat upon the Iron Throne and waited for his father.

“You know what I don’t understand?” she said, voice as even as the balance of a sword. “All of Westeros names you Kingslayer, calling it your greatest crime. But in my eyes, killing a Mad King is less of a crime as it is a necessary evil.  Before you swore yourself to the Kingsguard, you said your knight’s vows, do you remember those? In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. And yet when your father sacked King’s Landing, when Gregor Clegane killed Princess Elia and Prince Aegon, you were nowhere to be found.”

“You don’t know how much I regret not saving them,” said Jaime. He seemed unwilling to meet her gaze. “If I could change anything about that day, I never would have let any of you out of my sight.”

“And then what, you would have stood by and watched when your father ordered our deaths?”

“My father –”

“Don’t play dumb, Ser Jaime. All of Westeros knows Ser Gregor and Ser Amory were not clever enough to act on their own.” She was on the knife’s edge of control, her ever-present calm slipping. “Do you know what the Mountain did to my brother? I was there, I remember it clearer than any child ever should. He shattered my little brother’s skull against his nursery wall. His hands were still covered with Aegon’s blood when he raped my mother. When he finally crushed her head, death must have come as a relief.”

Jaime looked close to being sick. Rhaenys knew the feeling all too well. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I should have –”

“Save your regret, Ser Jaime. It won’t bring my family back.”

Heart in her throat, Rhaenys turned on her heel and left the way she came. Blood roared in her ears, leaving her feeling dizzy and nauseous. Her vision jumped between the grey cobblestones of Winterfell and bloody tiles. A woman’s scream, the slap of flesh against flesh, the soft crunch of bone and brain matter splattering before her - she was drowning in memories.

She fell to her knees, breath coming in short, shallow bursts. _Breathe,_ she told herself. _Breathe, dammit._ She was too old to have episodes like this, too old to be haunted by childhood nightmares. But the fear from that horrid day had sunk itself into her very bones, twisting her into who she had become.

Rhaenys had not been meant to survive. When Amory Lorch had come for her, murder shining in his pig-like eyes, she should not have been able to escape. But his hands had been blood-slick and she had been a squirmy child, twisting out of his grasp and running for her life down the halls she had played in so many times. It was luck that had thrown her mother’s maidservant in her path, luck that had given the maidservant the wits to spirit her away through one of the Red Keep’s hidden passages to Dorne.

Luck had given Rhaenys a second chance at life. What she was meant to do with it was anyone’s guess.

Slowly, far too slowly for her comfort, her breathing evened out and her vision cleared. Somehow, she had ended up in the godswood, surrounded by trees as thick as she was tall. The air was brisk, full of the sharp, thick smells of the greenery. Sunlight filtered through the heavy foliage above, but shadows pooled in the corners of the wood. The usual soft sounds of the wild were absent, leaving only an eerie silence. She got to her feet, brushing dirt from her skirt and pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

At the center of the godswood stood the ancient weirwood, bony branches reaching up to the sky. Blood-bright sap dripped from its eyes, the same color as its leaves. Rhaenys averted her eyes from the weeping face, filled with unease.

She had been raised on the new gods of the Seven, learning from her endlessly patient septa in Sunspear. Everything she knew about the old gods came from the few history texts that had spoken about the North. The wedding had been done in the Northern style, but with so many witnesses looking on, the godswood’s full effect had been lost on her. Now, alone amongst the trees, it felt as though a dozen eyes were watching her dispassionately, the ancient spirits of the gods judging her presence in this sacred place.

The crack of a branch echoed through the air. Rhaenys stifled a shriek, whirling around. A furry grey creature cocked its head at her and she almost laughed. It was nothing more than a pup, its yellow eyes staring at her in curiosity.

“Well aren’t you a darling,” she said, extending her hand towards the dog. He trotted up to her, sniffing her hand before giving it a friendly lick. She smiled and scratched his ears. She had always preferred the cats that roamed Sunspear’s grounds to the lean hounds in the kennels, as the cats reminded her of a kitten she had once had so long ago, but it was hard not to look at this pup’s curious eyes and not be enraptured.

“He likes you,” said a voice from the trees.

Rhaenys managed not to jump in surprise again and looked up at the newcomer. It was the younger Stark girl, Arya, with a similar dog at her feet. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, uncombed and frizzy. Though the girl wore a dress, green stains at the knees betrayed her favored activities.

“He’s a sweet dog,” said Rhaenys. “What’s his name?”

“That’s Grey Wind. But he’s not a dog, he’s a direwolf.”

Rhaenys blinked and looked back at the pup. “Oh.” She ought to be more scared, she thought, but Grey Wind seemed perfectly calm for one of the most fearsome predators in the known world. “I’d heard rumors that there were direwolves in Winterfell, but I thought them tall tales, nothing more.”

“Robb and Jon found them,” said Arya proudly. “There’s one for each of us. Grey Wind is Robb’s. Nymeria’s mine.” She gestured at the other one, a golden-eyed wolf who had begun tussling playfully with her littermate among the leaves.

Grey Wind must smell Robb on her, Rhaenys thought, embarrassed. Still, she grinned at the name of Arya’s wolf.

“For the princess of the Rhoynar? A strong name for a strong wolf; I like it.”

“Is it true they let girls fight in Dorne?” asked Arya, a gleam in her eye. “That’s what Old Nan says, but Mother told her not to encourage me.”

“They do.” In truth, it varied across the land, but Rhaenys didn’t want to crush the girl’s enthusiasm. “Several of my cousins can fight. They call them the Sand Snakes; they’re as deadly as any man.”

“Do you know how to fight?”

Rhaenys hesitated. “A bit. My uncle taught me how to use a dagger, but I’ve never found fighting as much fun as some of my cousins. Still, it’s a dangerous world out there. A woman ought to know how to defend herself. I take it your parents don’t approve of you learning to fight?”

Arya picked at a thread on her sleeve. “Mother says I have to learn to be a lady, but being a lady is so boring. I’m awful at embroidery, and Septa Mordane says I'm hopeless at playing the bells. I’d rather learn how to swordfight, like Robb, or Jon, or Bran, but she won’t let me ‘cause it’s not proper.”

“Our world has never been fair to girls, or kind to girls’ wishes.” Rhaenys twisted her ring.

Arya wrinkled her nose. “You had to marry Robb because the king said so. If the king ever said I had to marry some stranger, I’d probably run away. I don’t ever want to get married. Robb’s a good sort though, I promise!” she added hastily. “Except when he tries to be all lordly and tells me to stop annoying Sansa even though she started it.”

Rhaenys stifled a laugh. “Your brother seems perfectly nice, you don’t have to worry about me running away from anything. But regardless, if you want to learn how to wield a sword, you ought to be allowed to. Mayhaps you could be fostered in Dorne at some point. I think you would do well there.”

“You really think so?” Arya looked at her eagerly.

“I’m sure my uncle Doran would be happy to have you in Sunspear.” Far off, someone called Arya’s name. Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Is someone looking for you?”

“It’s probably Mother,” said Arya, coloring. “I wanted to play with Nymeria before breakfast, even though I’m not supposed to until after I have my morning lessons. But Father insisted the direwolves all had to be kept in the kennels until after the wedding, and it had been so long since I’d seen her!”

“We should head back to the Great Hall then, get something to eat. I’m sure your mother will let you play with Nymeria after your lessons.”

“Fine,” grumbled Arya, following Rhaenys reluctantly towards the godswood’s entrance. The wolves joined them after a beat, Grey Wind trotting at Rhaenys’s heels with his tail held high.

Lady Catelyn found them by the Library Tower, an aggravated sigh escaping her as she took in Arya’s disheveled appearance.

“A good morning to you, Princess Rhaenys,” she said. “Arya, how many times do I have to tell you not to run off and play before your lessons? You’re going to be late for breakfast again.”

Arya opened her mouth to defend herself, but Rhaenys beat her to it. “Lady Arya found me wandering around rather lost this morning and was kind enough to show me the grounds herself. We stopped by the kennels to see the wolves, they’re rather magnificent creatures, don’t you think?”

Lady Catelyn did not look entirely convinced but seemed willing to take the excuse at face value. “It was good of you to show the princess around, Arya.”

Arya shot Rhaenys a grateful look. “It was my pleasure,” she said in her most polite tone. “Might I be excused to go wash up before breakfast, Mother?”

“Go on, just don’t take too long.” Arya scampered off with both wolves close on her heels, a slight skip in her step. “Would you like to join us in breaking our fast, Princess Rhaenys? I do believe there are some Dornish oranges being served this morning.”

“That sounds wonderful, Lady Stark,” she said.

Rhaenys spent much of breakfast deep in conversation with Sansa Stark, discussing everything from embroidery to Dornish songs (the less lewd ones at least). Arya chimed in on occasion, interrupting her chatter with little Brandon Stark with questions about Dorne. Robb sat to Rhaenys’s right, but excepting a few polite, awkward words, they said very little to each other.

It left her feeling a bit odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The edit for this chapter is [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/177702860491/the-crownless-again-shall-be-q-u-e-e-n-over-a) if you wanna check it out.
> 
> You can find me at [thundersnowstorm](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come yell at me about asoiaf and Rhaenys and anything.
> 
> (Please, I have so many opinions I want to talk about.)
> 
> Next up: Ruling is easy. Marriage is hard.


	2. alea iacta est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A laugh bubbled up Rhaenys's throat, bursting out uncontrolled. She tried to cover it with her hand, but she couldn't contain the smile.
> 
> Robb's eyes were soft on her. "I think this is the first time I've seen you laugh."
> 
> Rhaenys bit her lip. "I'm sure you're just misremembering things."
> 
> "No, I don't think so." Robb reached out and twined his fingers with hers. "You're very guarded most of the time. You've been the consummate Lady of Winterfell, the consummate wife, but I don't think I have ever seen you be simply you."

_ii. alea iacta est - the die is cast_

 

 

The royal party left on a cold, clear day, the Martells along with them. Rhaenys refused to let herself cry, but even she could not prevent the sting of unshed tears as she watched Oberyn, Ellaria, and the Sand Snakes leave through the gates of Winterfell, the orange Martell banners growing ever smaller in the distance.

Of the people she had come with, only a few remained. Nymeria had promised to stay for at least a year to help her settle in, and there were a few Dornish guards that stuck around. With a good part of the Stark household having left with Eddard Stark for King’s Landing, the castle felt empty for the first time since she had arrived.

Brandon Stark’s unexpected fall cast a heavy shadow of sorrow over the remaining household. Robb became withdrawn, and Catelyn Stark hardly ever left Brandon’s bedside. Before she knew it, Rhaenys was thrust into the unofficial role of Lady of Winterfell, a task that often left her buried among the bookstacks, trying to learn as much as she could about the running of Winterfell.

Uncle Doran and Maester Ricasso had taught her a fair amount about household management back in Dorne. Sums had always come easy to her, but it was a different thing to make her own decisions about the spending of an entire castle. There were lords to write to, servants to befriend, complaints to sort through, all while trying to find time to read up on Northern history and customs. It was overwhelming sometimes, with so much to do and so few she could confide in.

"Remind me why it would be a bad idea to steal a horse in the middle of the night and run off back to Dorne?" Rhaenys was pacing in her rooms, too high-strung after a long day to let herself relax.

Nymeria raised a delicate eyebrow from where she sat draped over an armchair. "Because if you were caught, the Usurper would demand your head, and if you weren't caught, the Usurper would demand war with Dorne. Still, my father would certainly help you, and even Doran would eventually get over it. Would you like help packing?"

Rhaenys waved the suggestion away with an impatient hand. "Don't be ridiculous, I was just being hyperbolic. I'm not going to start another bloody war just because I'm panicking a little."

"What, is it your husband? I may not particularly like men, but even I know how easy it is to get their attention. Unless I was right about him and that Greyjoy ward."

"What? No, nothing of the sort. I'm just - I didn't expect to be Lady of Winterfell this soon."

Nymeria snorted. "Is that what's got you so worked up? By the Mother's teats, Rhaenys, you'll do fine. Sarella is the only one of us who's ever been able to outthink you, and the two of you used to follow Doran and Ricasso around on their duties in Sunspear like lost pups. You could manage a household in your sleep."

"This isn't Dorne, Nym,” she insisted. “I thought I would have time to learn the North, learn its people and its customs.  How can I expect Northerners to listen to me as their lady if I don't even know the names of half the houses?"

"So you learn the names. Read a book, talk to the maester, ask your husband.” Rhaenys pursed her lips at the last suggestion. Nymeria grinned in triumph. “So I was right, it is about your husband. What, is he terrible in bed?”

“Don’t be so crass, Nym,” she said, crossing her arms. “And no, it’s not that.”

Nymeria cackled with glee, a knowing glint in her eye. “I’m surprised, cousin, truly. I’d have thought Northerners were as cold as their lands.”

“It’s not –” She sighed in frustration. “The nights are fine. Better than fine. But that doesn’t matter because I hardly know him. We’ve been married for two moons and I don’t even know how to speak to him about matters other than the household.”

“I’m just saying, you seem to have started out your marriage far better than others,” replied Nymeria with a shrug. “He could have been old, or hideous, or worst of all, a terrible bed partner.”

“Oh, it could always be worse. That’s just something we say to console ourselves when we wish something would be _better._ ”

“So what is it you want to be better? What is it that you want to change?”

That was a question without a solution. She may not be happy in Winterfell, but neither was she miserable. Perhaps if she were truly miserable she would do something drastic – run off to Essos, change her name and live as nobody for the rest of her days. But as it was now, she was neither miserable enough to leave, nor comfortable enough to be happy.

“It’s just – everything changed so much in so little time.” Rhaenys ran a hand through her unbound hair. “Less than a year ago I was in Dorne, eating pomegranates in the Water Gardens, watching Dorea chase after Loreza. Now I’m a married woman and living in the North. I miss it. I miss home.”

Nymeria gave her a sympathetic look. “I know. I miss it too. Seven hells, I even miss the bloody desert. Sure, it might kill you, but at least you would be warm when you died.” Rhaenys cracked a smile at that. “But you were the one to decide you were going through with this, so you’re just going to have to make the best of it.”

“It was a choice between war and peace. I didn’t have many options.”

“Yes, and I’m sure my father still holds some slight resentment for you not picking war. But that’s neither here nor there. You’re a lady of the North now, so accept it, and make whatever changes you need. You’re well on your way to having read every last damned tax record in this castle and most of the servants like you well enough; within a few moons you’ll have the best-run household in the Seven Kingdoms. If you miss Dornish food, write to our uncle and arrange a shipment. And if you don’t know your husband, maybe try talking to him for once. Just a thought.”

Rhaenys glared at her cousin, but she was only half-serious about it. “You’re not very nice when giving your opinion.”

“If you wanted nice, you should have asked Ellaria to stay. But you know I’m right.”

“Fine, you’re right. It doesn’t change anything.”

Nymeria sat up to look at Rhaenys harder, crossing her arms. “Our ancestor – my namesake – took her people across a continent and a sea, fought countless armies, married a stranger, and conquered Dorne. If she could do all that, you can handle a marriage. She is your blood – start acting like it.”

Well, there wasn’t much Rhaenys could say to that.

…

"Robb, would you happen to know where - oh, princess, it's you." Lady Stark fell silent upon realizing it was Rhaenys she had burst in on, sitting in Robb's solar.

Her solar too, now that she and Robb were married. Lady Stark herself seemed mildly embarrassed to have forgotten.

"Lady Stark," said Rhaenys, rising from her seat to sink into a curtsy. "I'm afraid Lord Robb is not here at the moment, I believe he went hunting with Theon Greyjoy for the afternoon."

"Right," said Lady Stark, clearing her throat awkwardly. "My apologies, I should have knocked before entering."

"No apologies necessary," assured Rhaenys. "Is there anything you needed help with?

Lady Stark made a dismissive gesture with a bandaged hand. "Oh, it's just an old riding cloak I'm looking for, nothing important. One of the washerwomen likely misplaced it."

This, plus a conversation about travel preparations Rhaenys had overheard in the kitchens, confirmed her suspicion that Lady Stark was leaving Winterfell. Where to, or why, were unclear. "I hear you plan on traveling elsewhere," she said, picking her words with care. "I was curious as to how long you would be gone for."

Lady Stark regarded her with a wary eye. "It depends on how long my business takes me."

She was not yet trusted by many in Winterfell, this Rhaenys knew. She did not mind as much as she ought to mayhaps, but she could not blame the Northerners for being slow to trust a stranger and a foreigner. For all that she was now technically a part of House Stark, she was still an outsider.

"My lady, might we speak plainly?" Rhaenys clasped her hands in front of her. "I know you do not yet trust me. Given that we hardly know each other, I would consider that prudent. But I am not an ignorant woman, and I know that your business must be quite urgent if it has you traveling so soon after an injury, with little Brandon still asleep. I do not begrudge you your secrets, I would simply like to know how long you will be gone so I may take care of the household accordingly."

Some of the tension in Lady Stark's shoulders disappeared, and she looked less wary and more tired. "I have not been the best goodmother, I'm afraid," she admitted. "It is my duty as Lady of Winterfell to prepare its future lady for what her role awaits her, and in my grief, I have neglected that duty."

"Your son suffered a horrible accident; your grief is understandable."

"Still, I know better than anyone how difficult the mantle of Lady of Winterfell can be when first taken, especially as a southerner. Lady Lyarra Stark had passed away years before my arrival in the North, and I was forced to learn everything alone. I know how lonely the job can feel."

Rhaenys shrugged, pulling at her ring absently. "It's not so bad."

"Robb tells me you have been an excellent help with the ledgers," she insisted, and Rhaenys did not quite know what to think about that. "Though I do hope I can return soon and relieve you of some of your duties, I am confident you shall make a diligent Lady of Winterfell one day."

"I - thank you, Lady Stark."

"Please, it's just Lady Catelyn. You are my gooddaughter, I would have us be friends."

Rhaenys gave her a small smile. "Lady Catelyn." In truth, she had all but forgotten her goodmother after arriving, dismissing her as little more than a distraught mother. And she was that, but Catelyn Stark was far stronger than she let on if she was willing to fend off an assassin's blade with nothing more than her bare hands. “Might I ask some advice then?”

“Certainly.”

Rhaenys passed her the letter she had been reading. “Lord Manderly sent me this welcoming me to the North. His is a powerful house, but about the man himself I know little.”

Lady Catelyn scanned the parchment, handing it back to Rhaenys when she was finished. “As you said, House Manderly is a powerful and staunch ally of the Starks, and Wyman Manderly himself no less so. He is a good man, though far cleverer than he lets on. Much of the trade in the North comes through White Harbor. Not the kind of man you wish to antagonize.”

“House Manderly follows the Seven, do they not?”

“They do. Because of that, I would be careful to not appear to be favoring them overmuch. The other houses may see that as proof of you being more partial to those who follow your gods.”

Rhaenys nodded. “I will keep that in mind. I had some ideas of expanding trade to the North, and I figured Lord Manderly would be useful in discussing them with.”

“Just try not to promise over your first-born's hand,” she warned drily. “House Manderly has wanted one of their daughters as Lady Stark since they came north.”

Rhaenys stifled an awkward cough. “I – of course not.” The thought of children startled her. She knew she was expected to bear the next generation of House Stark, but it had always been so hypothetical. Now, a woman grown and wed, it was far less hypothetical.

Lady Catelyn switched topics upon seeing Rhaenys’s clear discomfort. "But to answer your question from earlier, I truly do not know when I will see Winterfell again. If the gods are good, only a few months, but anything could happen."

Rhaenys nodded. It was King's Landing then, she decided, that was Lady Catelyn's destination. Whatever her plans were (likely related to the attempt on poor Brandon's life), they lay in the heart of Westeros.

Lady Catelyn pressed her lips together, brow furrowed in thought. "What have your uncles told you about the Lannisters?" she said after a moment of silence.

"Nothing good," replied Rhaenys, swallowing her dread. If the Lannisters were involved, peace was uncertain.

"They blame the Lannisters for the deaths of your mother and brother." It was not a question.

"If Tywin Lannister believes anyone buys his ridiculous story of innocence, he is either a fool or thinks himself untouchable," scoffed Rhaenys. "It was the Mountain that killed Mother and Aegon, it was Amory Lorch who tried to kill me, and everyone knows they are Tywin Lannister's creatures. Instead of being punished, instead of being hung like the coward he is, he was rewarded with a daughter for queen and a grandson for king." Rhaenys dug her nails in to her palms, the pounding of blood loud in her ears. She lowered her eyes. "Apologies, Lady Catelyn. I spoke out of turn."

"You spoke the truth, nothing less, nothing more." Lady Catelyn glanced behind them, at the open door and the low chatter that lay beyond. Eyes steely with resolve, she went to close the door. Turning back to Rhaenys, she said, "What reason would the Lannisters have of murdering Jon Arryn?"

Her eyebrows rose of their own accord. "Jon Arryn died of old age and illness."

"Poison can be made to imitate many things."

Oberyn and Tyene had told her similar things many times before, though Rhaenys had never taken to poisons like they had. "Then it depends on which Lannister you speak of," she said carefully. "Doran always said that for all his pride, Tywin Lannister never had any left over for his children. Queen Cersei is known to hate her younger brother, the dwarf. Jaime Lannister – well, he might have killed a king, but as Kingsguard, he has little political influence. Whichever Lannister had Jon Arryn killed had their own, independent reasons.”

Know your enemy, Doran had also said, and so for all her hatred of House Lannister, she had learned.

Lady Catelyn nodded, eyes shadowed in thought. "Thank you. I assume you don't need to be told of the importance of discretion in this matter."

"My lips are sealed. And I wish you the best with your ventures in the South. Be careful in King's Landing, it is a city full of scorpions underfoot, all ready to bite."

"I shall be investing in a good pair of boots then," said Lady Catelyn wryly, and Rhaenys laughed.

…

Sex was easy. They were young, hungry, and the nights were long. Anything that might be said died quickly on the lips with the immediacy of the other person, the press of skin overriding everything else. They learned each other's bodies like the pages of a book, hands skimming over every inch of skin.

It was everything else that was difficult. Rhaenys knew how many freckles decorated Robb's left shoulder blade but she had to ask Cook Gage when his nameday was. Every time he tried to initiate a conversation about something other than Winterfell's management, she panicked and kissed him. Somewhere buried inside her was still the scared little girl who had nightmares about the Mountain, the scared little girl terrified to ever be vulnerable.

A week after the departure of Lady Catelyn, Rhaenys was reaching for her robe when a hand closed around her wrist. She looked at Robb in surprise.

"Stay?" he asked with a sheepish smile. "Just for a little bit."

She bit her lip and nodded reluctantly, sitting towards the end of the bed with her legs curled beneath her. After that first night, she had slept in her own rooms, leaving Robb's chamber as soon as she had steadied her breathing. Still, she didn't want to outright reject Robb, and she could leave as soon as the conversation inevitably gave way to long silence.

"Septon Chayle says at least two thirds of the books should be recoverable," she began, out of need for something to discuss. "He will need another pair of hands to clean up and repair the bookshelves, but in a fortnight or so I expect we should have the library back like it was, albeit smaller. We'll need to find –"

“Your eyes are purple,” blurted out Robb.

Rhaenys blinked. “Yes. They are.”

He flushed red. “My apologies, I just realized I hadn’t noticed it before. I thought them black, but that was just the light.”

“Most people think so too. I look far more Dornish than Valyrian though, even with them.”

“They’re very pretty.”

She wasn't sure whether to blush or be amused. "If this is an attempt to get me into your bed, you really don't need to try so hard. Or at all. We already, ah –" She tried to think of an allusion or phrase that wouldn't sound too crude and came up short.

"No, that's not – you're beautiful, I just wanted to tell you." Mother, Maiden, and Crone, neither she nor Robb seemed able to get a word out properly.

"Well, thank you," she replied, tugging at one of her curls. "You are too. I mean, handsome, you’re handsome.” Rhaenys stifled a groan. "Seven hells, this is a mess. Can we just pretend this conversation never happened?"

"So you don't think I'm pretty?" asked Robb in an offended tone, a glint in his eye.

"If that's what you want to hear, then yes, you're very pretty," she said drily.

Robb nodded, very seriously. "Thank you, my lady, that's all I needed. After all, what else do I have if not my stunning looks?"

A laugh bubbled up Rhaenys's throat, bursting out uncontrolled. She tried to cover it with her hand, but she couldn't contain the smile.

Robb's eyes were soft on her. "I think this is the first time I've seen you laugh."

Rhaenys bit her lip. "I'm sure you're just misremembering things."

"No, I don't think so." Robb reached out and twined his fingers with hers. "You're very guarded most of the time. You've been the consummate Lady of Winterfell, the consummate wife, but I don't think I have ever seen you be simply you."

Something in her bones wanted desperately to make an excuse and flee those earnest eyes of Robb Stark, keep the scared little girl within hidden deep. Rhaenys squashed that instinct. "My uncle Oberyn says I have a rather deep sense of duty," she admitted. "I am whoever I am needed to be."

"What about when you're alone? Tell me about that Rhaenys Targaryen."

"Like what?"

Robb shrugged. "What's your favorite food, for one?"

"Pomegranates," Rhaenys said at once. "Dorne is probably more well known for its blood oranges, but I always loved pomegranates best. Oh, and the roasted honey almonds the Sunspear cook used to give me by the handful. I once ate so many I was sick for a day." Robb laughed at that, a warm sound that filled the room. "What about you, Lord Robb Stark? What's your favorite food?"

"Gage's steak and kidney pies. He hasn't made them since the wedding. I should ask him to make them again, you would love them. The perfect combination of buttery crust and warm, tender filling.” Robb licked his lips. “Gods, just thinking about them is making me hungry."

Feeling unusually daring, Rhaenys jumped to her feet. "Alright then. Get up, we're going to the kitchens."

"But it's the middle of the night – the kitchens are closed."

"And you're lord of the castle. Cook Gage can't say anything if we indulge a little bit tonight." Rhaenys slipped on her night robe and slippers.

"Mother once gave me the tongue-lashing of my life for stealing a pie meant for a feast when I was eight," said Robb, following her off the bed. "But you're right – I'm Lord of Winterfell and if I want some food in the middle of the night, who's going to say anything?" His eyes were bright with mischief.

The two of them made their way through Winterfell's halls giggling and shushing each other in turn, feeling like children about to be reprimanded by someone. But there was no one awake, and no one would say anything to the lord and lady anyway, so they made it to the kitchens without encountering another soul.

Robb busied himself lighting one of the oil lamps while Rhaenys rummaged through the cupboards in search of food. Triumphant, she pulled out a covered platter of scones.

"Perfect, the blueberry scones from dinner," she said, taking a bite out of one and waving it at Robb.

He grinned. "And you know what else this meal needs?" He held up a flagon. "I know it's not a Dornish red, but mead will go wonderfully with the scones."

Rhaenys hopped onto one of the counters, letting her legs swing freely beneath her thin night shift. "Don't ever tell anyone this, but I don't like most Dornish wines. I prefer the sweeter drinks. Although I will take a Dornish red any day over any of that swill they serve in the Reach."

"My lips are sealed. It wouldn't do for people to learn that a Dornishwoman has insulted their beloved wine." Robb passed her a cup of the mead and raised his own. "To Dorne."

Rhaenys copied him. "To the North." She took a long drink of mead, relishing the honey-sweet burn as it slid down her throat, the hint of apples it left behind.

"What was it like growing up in Dorne?" asked Robb, leaning against the counter opposite Rhaenys.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Dorne was – well, it was hot. And dry, and sandy, and absolutely wonderful. I loved growing up there. Riding through the deserts on a sandsteed felt like flying. I could spend an entire day riding with my cousins. There's Arianne, Doran's heir. She is as wild as she is stubborn, but her heart is in the right place. And Oberyn has all his daughters. You've met Nymeria, but she's only one of eight Sand Snakes. Gods, we must have driven my uncles crazy, running all over the place, involved in some childish scheme or another. Sarella, Nym and I once dyed Maester Ricasso's robes bright yellow. He didn't seem to find it as funny as we did."

"Nor did Prince Doran, I imagine," laughed Robb before turning sober. "I'm - well I know it wasn't my decision, but I'm sorry you had to leave Dorne. It sounds like you loved it there."

"I did. But I don't regret leaving." She shrugged. "What were my other options? Wage some ridiculous, unwinnable war for a throne I don’t even want? Run off to Essos, to cities even more foreign than Winterfell, scared of finding assassins in every shadow? No, I may not have had much choice, but I still chose to come here. The North may be cold, but it is safe." 

"Still," said Robb. "It couldn't have been easy. If there's anything you need to make Winterfell feel more comfortable, all you need is ask."

"You're sweet," she told him, cocking her head to the side. The mead had left behind a warm, languid feeling throughout her body, her usual worries and barriers dissipated for the time being like so much smoke. Her tongue was looser than usual, but she found she didn't much mind. It was nice to speak with candor for once. "What about you? Tell me about growing up in Winterfell, if we are each going to be sharing stories about each other."

"Well," he started, "from the beginning, it was always me and Jon. Mother never liked him, but she never said anything about us playing together, which is more than can be said for other ladies I suppose."

"Most of Westeros outside of Dorne is rather odd about bastards," observed Rhaenys. "It's not common for them to be raised alongside true-born children, yes?" He nodded. "Although I wouldn't really know what that's like. Oberyn never married and Doran has no bastards that I know of. Jon Snow is at the Wall now, is he not?"

"He is. He always loved listening to Uncle Benjen's stories about wildlings and ranging. I would've liked it if he had stayed, but he'd been adamant about going for years. I do hope he's found the Night's Watch to be all that he wanted." Robb traced the direwolf stamp on his cup with an absent thumb. "Anyway, when I was about seven, Father came back from the Greyjoy Rebellion with Theon as our ward. Somehow, I wore him down from his solitary brooding and convinced him to join me and Jon's games, though the two of them never got along."

"Theon is - well, he's a good shot with the longbow," said Rhaenys, trying to find something she liked about the Greyjoy ward.

"As well as cocky, crass, and arrogant. You have my full permission to tell him off whenever you'd like, he could certainly do with being taken down a few pegs."

"I wasn't going to ask for your permission, but it is noted," she said, taking a delicate sip from her cup.

Robb grinned. "You're a lot more fun to talk to when you're not trying to be the perfect lady.”

"I'm wearing little more than my nightclothes, eating scones and drinking mead at the late hours of the night. If I got much less ladylike, my old septa would die of shock."

"Cheers to that," he said, lifting his cup. Rhaenys hid a smile behind the rim of her cup.

She wasn't sure what time they finally left the kitchen, having run out of childhood stories, mead, and scones, but the next morning, it was Robb's bed she found herself awaking in, her arm splayed over his stomach.

It was nice.

…

“Maester Luwin said I might find you in here.”

Rhaenys looked up from her book, blinking as her eyes readjusted. Robb was leaning against the doorway to the library, his gaze fond.

“Gods, the time must have gotten away from me.” She hadn’t even noticed the long shadows that dragged across the room. “I haven’t missed supper, have I?”

“I was just coming to fetch you.” He crossed the room to peer over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”

“ _A Comprehensive History of the Kingdom of the North since the Age of Heroes_ ,” she said, smoothing out a fold in a page. “Rather tedious and meandering, but I figured I should learn more about the history of my new land.”

“Well, at the pace you’re going, you’re going to know more about the North than even I do,” he said. “What was it that you were reading last week again?”

“ _A Comparison of Duties and Tariffs of the Kingdom of the North with the Targaryen Dynasty,_ ” she said. “By Archmaester Gerold. Far duller than this tome, but it had some incisive commentary on a lord’s duty to their subjects, I thought.”

“I think Maester Luwin forced me to read that when I was younger, but I never would have read it willingly,” he laughed. “No wonder he adores you.”

Rhaenys shrugged. “When I was a girl, my uncle Doran would joke that if I had been born a boy, I would have become a maester myself. My cousin Sarella and I must have spent more time in Maester Ricasso’s tower than playing with the other children.”

Oh, how she missed Sarella. Just before leaving, Sarella had whispered to her some crazy, hare-brained plan about going to the Citadel to become a maester herself. It was a fantasy they had both indulged as young girls: running away, cutting off their hair and shedding all identity for the mythical libraries of Oldtown. Rhaenys wished her cousin all the best, but she had not been able to help her flash of jealousy at the opportunity she herself could never have.

But of course, Rhaenys’s last name was not Sand.

“You will make a good Lady of Winterfell one day,” said Robb, eyes soft.

“You flatter me too much,” she deflected. “I am doing my duty, nothing more, nothing less.”

“And you are far too modest, my lady.” He held his hand out to her. “Come, we should go to supper. Your book can wait, but Rickon can’t.”

Rhaenys chuckled and stood, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as they made their way to the Great Hall. With so much of the household in the south, meals were just the remaining Starks, Theon Greyjoy, Nymeria, and a few of the servants.

Rickon barreled straight into them the moment they entered the Great Hall. “Robb, Robb, Robb, did you know that there’s dragon eggs under Winterfell? Old Nan says so, she says the dragon Vermax laid them and one day they’re going to hatch and I’m going to ride one!”

Robb smiled down at his little brother and ruffled his hair. “Is that right? Well, what else does Old Nan say about these dragon eggs?”

“Old Nan says a prince rode Vermax into battle, but I can’t remember his name.”

“Jacaerys Velaryon,” said Rhaenys.

“Yeah, him.” Rickon frowned in concentration. “But I thought all the old princes were from that other house.”

“House Targaryen,” she told him as Robb lifted Rickon into his seat. “My father’s house. Prince Jacaerys was a prince through his mother’s side, but he took his father’s name. Just like how your mother is a Tully but your name is Stark.”

Rickon nodded, though her explanation of house politics interested him far less than tales of dragons. “Oh, alright. Can I have some lemon cakes?”

Robb rolled his eyes fondly. “After your supper, Rickon. You know Mother’s rules.”

They settled down around the table, Robb at the head as acting lord with Rhaenys at his right and Bran at his left. Ever since waking, Bran had been distant, the loss of his legs having hit him hard. Robb tried his best to bring him out of his shell, but the boy was reticent. Oddly, it was Rhaenys he responded best to, though that might have been in part because of her promise to write to her uncle to get the schematics for his wheelchair.

It was a quiet meal. Rickon led the conversation for the most part, chattering on throughout the meal, pausing only to eat. He quieted down only once Nymeria began a much-embellished telling of the Rhoynish conquest of Dorne that caught even Bran's attention, though Theon Greyjoy kept interrupting to toss in his own sarcastic commentary.

“You’re good with him,” said Rhaenys, nodding in Rickon’s direction.

Robb shrugged. “In truth, Rickon is the easiest bit of all this. I don’t have to be the acting Lord Stark with him, just his brother.” He rubbed his brow. “I just never expected to be doing so much so soon.”

She entwined her fingers with his. It had been easier than she'd thought to fall into this easy sort of friendship with Robb, speaking to him as though she'd known him her entire life. “You’re doing an excellent job. And this is only temporary. There’s still plenty of time before you have to be Warden of the North.”

Robb pressed a firm kiss to the back of her hand. Rhaenys tried to suppress the rise of heat to her cheeks. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I had no idea what to expect before you arrived at Winterfell, but you’ve been nothing but wonderful. Bran talks to you far more than me, Maester Luwin adores you, and you’re certainly better than I am at managing Winterfell’s ledgers.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Robb, I –”

Whatever she had been about to say was interrupted by Maester Luwin rushing into the Hall as fast as his creaking bones would carry him. “My lord, a letter from King’s Landing has arrived. It bears the Lannister seal.”

Rhaenys’s heart dropped. She exchanged a panicked look with Robb. The situation between the Starks and the Lannisters had been growing graver by the day.

Wordlessly, Robb extended a hand to take the letter. He broke the seal and scanned the parchment, expression turning dark.

“What is it?” she asked, voice low.

“King Robert is dead.” Any scattered muttering in the hall went dead silent. “The Lannisters have charged Father with treason.”

Rhaenys inhaled sharply. “Clear the room,” she commanded. “Maester Luwin, you should stay.” She shook her head minutely at Nymeria. She would speak to her cousin later.

“Rickon, Bran, you too,” said Robb, ignoring his brothers’ protests. His tone was firm, but Rhaenys could hear a tremble in his breathing. “Theon, you can stay.”

As the room emptied, Rhaenys took the letter from Robb and scanned the parchment. Robert Baratheon had died in a hunting accident, it said, and Rhaenys did not know how to feel. Relief and dark satisfaction mixed with the trepidation at the newly crowned King Joffrey. If the Lannisters had grown bold enough to accuse the ever-honorable Eddard Stark of treason, it did not bode well for the future.

“Sansa wrote this letter,” said Robb, once only Maester Luwin and Theon were left in the hall. “She said Father conspired to take the throne from Joffrey Baratheon.”

“Your sister’s hand, but the queen’s words,” surmised Luwin.

“They want me to go south and declare fealty to the new king.” Robb’s expression went stormy.

“You can’t be thinking of doing that,” protested Theon.

“My lord, you can hardly refuse the king,” said Luwin.

Rhaenys had to agree with Theon. “If you go to King’s Landing, you will not leave. Your grandfather and uncle went south and died. Your father has gone south and been imprisoned. My mother –” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

Robb swallowed. “I will go south,” he said. “But not alone. Maester Luwin, call the banners.”

A grin flashed across Theon’s face, but Rhaenys could feel nothing but dread. Calling the banners was not an inherent act of war, but she could not see a bloodless way out of this conflict.

“Yes, my lord.” Maester Luwin bowed and left the room.

Rhaenys moved to the window, contemplating the snow-covered courtyard as her mind raced through the possible outcomes like a game of cyvasse. Behind her, Robb and Theon spoke in quiet tones.

“You afraid?” asked Theon.

“I must be,” confessed Robb. Rhaenys knew what he meant. For all that she was trying to remain calm and calculated, she could feel the panic struggling to remain at bay.

“Good,” said Theon.

“Why is that good?”

“It means you’re not stupid.”

…

Greatjon Umber clutched his hand, blood dripping down the mangled stubs of his fingers. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Then – “Your meat is bloody tough!” he roared, and the tension dissipated as uncomfortable laughter began to fill the room.

Rhaenys forced herself to let go of her dagger, slipping it back into its sheath beneath her sleeves with clumsy fingers. “You alright?” she asked Robb in a low voice.

A flash of unease flickered across his face before disappearing, his lord’s mask back on. “I’m fine,” he promised. “Father always said you needed to show some spine to the Greatjon before he would take you seriously. I didn’t think that meant I’d have to let Grey Wind take a few fingers, but here we are I suppose.” Robb brushed a quick kiss to her cheek. “I need to go talk with Lord Karstark about the supply train. I'll be back in a minute.”

Robb made his way over to a tall, white-bearded man further down the table, leaving Rhaenys to pick at her meat, her appetite nonexistent.

Next to Rhaenys sat Bran, looking just as uncomfortable as she felt. She tugged lightly at one of his auburn curls just to elicit a small smile from him.

“How are you doing?” she asked him.

“Fine,” he said, glancing back down the table to Lord Umber, whose makeshift bandage of a linen napkin was turning red.

“It’s rather late, don’t you think?” she said, feigning nonchalance. “I’m sure Robb wouldn’t mind if you retired to your chambers for the night.”

Bran flashed her a grateful smile. “Thank you,” he said.

Rhaenys waved over Hodor, who came shambling over with a wide grin. “Hodor,” he said in greeting.

“Lord Bran is feeling a bit tired, Hodor,” she said. “Would you mind helping him back to his chambers?”

Hodor crouched down to scoop Bran up, the young boy looking even smaller than usual in the man’s enormous arms. Rhaenys left the hall with the two of them, taking the excuse to escape the noise of the feast for a moment.

Back in Bran’s chambers, she helped tuck him into bed, Summer curled up by his feet. Though the direwolf’s eyes were closed, his ears were perked up in attention, ever the watchful guard.

“Will Father return home?” asked Bran quietly.

Rhaenys bit her lip. Somehow, without quite remembering, she knew she had once asked her mother the very same thing about her own father. Oh, the circumstances were quite different, but at the end of the day, a child wanted nothing more than the comfort and reassuring presence of their parent.

“I’m sure he will,” she said, projecting as much confidence as she could. “King Joffrey would never dare harm the Warden of the North. Once he sees all the Northern banners, he will have no choice but to let your father come home. Everything will be normal again soon, I’m sure of it.”

She left the room feeling unmoored, as if the foundations of the earth were shifting beneath her feet. For all her posturing to Bran, she had no idea what would happen next. She may have hated Robert Baratheon, but he had at least been a known quantity. Joffrey Baratheon was a wild card. The rumors flying from the south were as varied and inconsistent as anything, and nobody truly knew what would happen next.

Lost in worries and speculation, Rhaenys stumbled across Theon Greyjoy, not far from the hubbub of the Great Hall. He was leering at a pretty servant girl, a tankard of ale dangling from his fingers.

“Lord Theon,” she said, icily polite. Upon seeing her, the servant sank into a deep curtsy and slipped past her in a hurry, murmuring an apology.

Theon glared at her. “My lady. Had you waited a few more minutes, I might have been able to finish persuading the lovely girl to join me for the night.” His words were slurring together, not that Rhaenys was surprised. Theon Greyjoy had never missed an opportunity to indulge in drink.

“I’m sure Lyessa has plenty to do tonight that doesn’t involve bedding spoiled young lords,” she told him. “I would thank you not to distract the servants while they’re working.”

“I thought Dornishwomen were more fun than that,” he snorted. “Poor Robb. His bed must be so cold at night.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “I would have you watch your tongue,” she warned. “You may be deep in your cups, but that is no excuse to speak to a princess of Dorne in that manner.”

Theon raised his cup to her in a mock apology. “Of course, princess.” Then, with a sly grin, he began singing, his pitch rather off-key. “ _Oh, the Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring._ ”

If there ever was a song that Rhaenys couldn’t stand, it was The Dornishman’s Wife. So, she raised her chin and met Theon’s gaze steady on. “Does Robb know you’re in love with him?”

The singing stuttered to a stop. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As drunk as Theon was, her words seemed to have sobered him up quick.

“As you’ve so clearly implied, Dorne is a land of perverse desires and loose morals.” Her tone was light, the sarcasm unmistakable. “Coming from Dorne, it’s not difficult to discern those desires in others. It’s rather tragic, truly. The Ironborn boy, hostage of the very person he’s in love with. Were you in Dorne, the singers would write a beautifully sad song about you. With luck it would be better than The Dornishman’s Wife.”

“Don’t make accusations out of thin air.” The words came out as a warning, but Theon had been too unmoored by her words to seem threatening.

“I don’t. I just say what I observe, nothing less, nothing more.” In truth, it had been closer to an educated guess, based off comments from Nymeria, but his reaction had been enough to confirm her suspicions.

“Well, you’re wrong,” he argued weakly.

She smiled at him, though her eyes remained cold. “Then I’m sure you would not mind me sharing my mistaken observation with Robb.” If Theon were a different person, she might have been more sympathetic, but this was not the first time he had made lewd comments to her. Her well of sympathy had long gone dry.

“You’re a cruel bitch,” spat Theon, his face pale.

“And you’re a drunk bastard.” Rhaenys shrugged. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Robb doesn’t suspect anything, nor is he likely to. Northerners are rather oblivious that way. But he does seem to care for you for some reason. Only the gods know why. But as it seems neither of us are going anywhere, I would ask you to treat me with at least the faintest amount of respect, and in exchange, I will keep quiet.”

Theon blinked. “Why wouldn’t you say anything?” Beneath his cocksure demeanor, the bitter tone, there was a vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide.

“Robb’s a good man. And right now, he needs to focus on getting his father home, not worry about you.” Perhaps Theon was right, perhaps she was being cruel, but she had bigger things to think about that the hurt feelings of some Greyjoy lordling. “I don’t particularly like you, but if you truly love him, I can trust you to keep Robb alive and return him home. Can you promise me that?”

A muscle pulsed in Theon’s jaw. “Yes.”

“Then I bid you a good evening.” Skirts in hand, Rhaenys swept past Theon and returned to the feast.

…

Rhaenys did not have a moment to speak to Robb until late that night, once they had retired to their chambers. The moon hung high in the sky, bleaching everything odd shades of grey. After the rowdiness of the feast, the room felt eerily quiet, only the crackling of the hearth keeping the silence at bay.

“We ride out first thing in the morning,” said Robb, running a hand through his hair. “I will send a raven once we reach Moat Cailin, but I don’t know the next time I will be able to send news until we reach Riverrun. They say the Mountain and his men have been raiding the Riverlands and I don’t know how long it will take to reach my grandfather and his men.”

Rhaenys grabbed his hand, trying to meet his eyes. “Robb –”

“Bran is lord of Winterfell until I return with Father, but I trust you to keep everything running smoothly for him. I hate to leave him and Rickon, but it must be done. Maester Luwin can answer any question about the North you might have. Be firm with the lords, they will try to get favors from you now that you’re in charge. They’re a demanding bunch, they won’t –”

“Robb _,_ ” she repeated, this time with more force. “I know all of this. You know I know all of this. Just – come sit with me.” She led him to a seat by the fireplace, where the flickering flames left odd shadows beneath his eyes. “Talk to me. Properly.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Father always said that the only time a man can be brave is when he’s afraid. If that’s true, I must be the bravest man in the world right now.”

“Bravery without fear is nothing more than reckless bravado,” she said, repeating a favorite axiom of Doran’s. “Fear is what will keep you alive.”

"I'm not ready for this. I'm not - I can't lead men to battle, ask them to listen to my commands." The words were tumbling out now, fast and panicky. "Taking care of Winterfell was one thing, but I can't ask men to die for me, Rhaenys, I just can't."

"You must." She pulled him closer, so that her skirts were pressed against his legs. "You have no choice, they have your father and sisters captive. Honor demands justice, and justice demands blood. You will do the same thing your father did, the same thing his father did, the same thing every one of your ancestors did, Wardens and Kings alike. Your men will fight for you, your men will die for you, and the boy king will realize just what beast he awoke by provoking the North.”

Robb let out a shaky laugh. "I thought you hated the idea of war."

"I do," she whispered. "Gods know that if I could, I would never let you or your bannermen leave Winterfell. But they have your father, they have your sisters. What other choice is there but war?"

“I will get them home,” he swore. “We will all be home soon, and the Lannisters will rue the day they crossed House Stark.” He ran a thumb across the backs of her knuckles. “And House Martell.”

She started at that. “Robb, my family is not involved in this conflict.”

“Tywin Lannister had your brother and mother killed. You don’t talk about it, but I remember how much you avoided the Lannisters’ entourage when they were here for the wedding. Aye, I fight for House Stark and to free my family, but I know my history. The Lannisters need to pay for their crimes upon your family.”

“Stay away from Tywin Lannister,” she warned, her nails digging into Robb’s palms. “He’s an honorless murderer with a dozen battles under his belt and more blood on his hands than anyone else in Westeros. Get your father and sisters back however you can, win however you must, but don’t involve him in this for me, I beg you.”

“He’s been laying waste to the Riverlands for weeks now,” he reminded her. “He is involved already whether we like it or not.”

Rhaenys pulled her arms back, wrapping them around her middle. How could she explain the utter terror she felt at the very mention of Tywin Lannister, the man who haunted her nightmares nearly as much as Gregor Clegane? “So send other men to fight him. Your uncle in Riverrun maybe, or the Greatjon. It doesn’t matter, just stay away from him. Gods, don’t you remember what happened to the Reynes?” She was trembling, when had she started trembling?

“Rhae, look at me.” His voice was gentle. “Tywin Lannister is just a man, nothing more. I have tens of thousands of men with me, he won’t even get the chance to touch me.”

She nodded, forcing herself to listen to him, even though some terrified part wanted nothing more than to tell him to stop being so naïve, so hopeful. “You’re right, I know you’re right.” She pushed that scared little girl away, deep down within herself. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._ “Just – be safe. That’s all I ask.”

He cracked a smile. “For you, my love? Anything.”

It was said in a japing tone, but Rhaenys’s stomach twisted with some unfamiliar emotion. For once, words escaped her. So instead, she leaned in, kissing him with a desperation she hoped would convey everything she felt, everything she was too afraid to utter out loud.

In the distance, a direwolf howled, its voice haunting with melancholy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Rhae do the whole marriage thing pretty backwards tbh. First they're basically one night stands who happened to be married, then they progress to friends (with benefits + marriage), then maybe potentially love? Arranged marriages are weird.
> 
> Edit for this chapter is [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/177770509421/the-crownless-again-shall-be-q-u-e-e-n-a-laugh).
> 
> Next up: War breaks out. Rhaenys endures.


	3. si vis pacem, para bellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the people Rhaenys had ever thought she would become, Queen in the North was the last title she had thought she would ever hold.
> 
> Aegon the Conqueror must be laughing himself silly in his grave, she thought drily. A Targaryen who was both a Princess of Dorne and Queen in the North. History seemed to be love its little ironies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my algorithms homework. Two questions that have taken me six hours and counting. One of these days I'm gonna start dreaming in pseudocode and mathematical series. Help.

_iii. si vis pacem, para bellum – if you wish for peace, prepare for war_

 

 

Rhaenys had just finished discussing repairs to the library tower with Septon Chayle when she learned she had become a queen.

She had to reread the letter from Riverrun several times before the words registered.

“Gods above,” she muttered, exhaling sharply. She passed the open letter back to Maester Luwin.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, your grace,” he said after reading it, bowing deeply. Septon Chayle quickly followed suit.

Of all the people Rhaenys had ever thought she would become, Queen in the North was the last title she had thought she would ever hold.

 _Aegon the Conqueror must be laughing himself silly in his grave,_ she thought drily. A Targaryen who was both a Princess of Dorne and Queen in the North. History seemed to be love its little ironies.

“Very well, I suppose everyone will have to be informed,” she said briskly. “Maester Luwin, let the household know the good news. My husband is the first King in the North in three hundred years; there should be a feast to celebrate. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Bran and Rickon. I don’t know how they will take the news so soon after learning of their father’s death.”

Luwin bowed again and she took off, skirts billowing around her as she strode through the halls to find the new princes. As she passed the kitchens, she noticed Nymeria flirting with Jonelle Cerwyn, a visiting lady with a quiet sort of manner.

“Nym, I need to speak to you.”

Her cousin pouted at being interrupted but joined her nonetheless.

“What is it, coz? You seem serious.”

Rhaenys silently handed her the letter.

Nymeria’s eyes went round with surprise after reading it. “Queen in the North, huh? Seven hells, who would have thought?”

“Yes, well, more importantly, we need to consider what will happen with the war,” said Rhaenys. “Any chance of it ending quickly disappeared the moment the Lannisters decided to take Ned Stark’s head.”

"Between you and Robb Stark, you hold three lands," murmured Nymeria. "Perhaps four, if the Vale bothers to bestir itself. That's more than any other contender for the throne." There was that look in her eye again, the one she shared with her father. It was lust: lust for vengeance, lust for blood. "Send me to Dorne, Rhaenys. I will get our uncle to raise every spear in Dorne to your cause and put a crown on your head. Casterly Rock will burn at our feet and the Lannisters will rue the day they killed Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen.”

"Don't speak this way." Rhaenys hadn't meant to snap but she did anyway. "I will accept the title of Queen in the North because I have no choice, but I would rather cut off my own arm than step foot in that scorpion's nest that calls itself King's Landing. That city swallows people whole, wolves and vipers alike, and spits out their bones. No, Nymeria, you will not convince me to take up your father's cause and let myself be destroyed by the past."

“Our family deserves to be avenged, they _must_ be avenged –”

“And they will be. The Iron Throne is not vengeance, Nymeria, it is a curse.”

Nymeria's eyes softened in understanding. "You would be a great queen, you know. The realm would benefit greatly from you."

She shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. It matters not. I still do not want that throne."

Rhaenys had been four-and-ten when she had learned of Doran’s plans to crown her when she was older. She hadn’t been meant to find out, but she and Sarella had always been far too curious for their own good. The letter discussing a betrothal with the Tyrell heir in exchange for their support had been all too clear with its implications.

That was the most she had ever fought with either Doran or Oberyn. They had insisted it was her birthright, that the dead still demanded justice. Rhaenys had clung tight to the Martell words and had not budged. Justice would be served, but not by sacrificing everything she held dear. Eventually Doran had relented and any plans to place her on the throne turned to ash. Doran, she knew, had turned to other schemes, ones that looked further east. Oberyn had not. A Dornish queen and the Lannisters' heads, that was his deepest desire. Ironically, fate seemed to have realized half of that now, though not in the way he might have wished.

All her life people had been telling Rhaenys how much she was her mother's daughter. She would never know how much truth those claims held. Elia Martell was no more than a story to her, and if not for a few dusty memories, she would be no more real to her own daughter than tales of Durran Godsgrief. Mayhaps Elia would have agreed with Oberyn and Nymeria, that vengeance was best hot, bloody, ruthless. Rhaenys would never know. Vengeance would not bring her mother back, nor her brother, nor her father. All she would be left with would be scars from the Iron Throne's rusty arm rests, and that was if she survived to sit on it.

Let her cousins and Oberyn have their fiery rage. Rhaenys's blood ran as cold as the winds of her new home. She would do her duty, and she would live.

“What are you planning, then?” asked Nymeria. “You may not want to take the Iron Throne, but the Lannisters will hardly leave the North be. You are at war, whether you like it or not.”

“I know.” Rhaenys pursed her lips together. “I am going to need you to return south, to Dorne.”

“I can convince Doran to call the banners, but if you do not plan on taking the Iron Throne, what would you have me say?”

Rhaenys shook her head. “No, I need the opposite. I need you to make sure that the banners are not called.”

“Pardon?”

“Dorne is much too far south to do Robb any good, and it has not had a proper navy since Nymeria of the Rhoyne had burned her ten thousand ships. No, getting involved directly in the war would only hurt Dorne and waste lives. So here is what I need you to do. One, make sure Uncle Doran stays officially neutral. Oberyn will rant and rave, but he is not the ruling prince.

“However, this doesn’t mean Dorne must stay out of the war. Its strength isn’t in open battle; it is cleverness. It is how Dorne held off the dragons for so long, and it is how we will defeat the lions. Convince our uncle to send small groups of men to sabotage Lannister camps. But make sure they seem to be nothing more than bandits; we need the Lannisters to think Dorne is staying neutral. Next, we are going to need to expand trade between our two kingdoms. The war will be costly, and with winter coming, the North is going to need gold. And finally, I will need eyes in King’s Landing. Mayhaps Tyene, no one ever suspects a sweet-faced septa.”

Nymeria regarded her with a critical eye. “I never knew you had so many ideas for war.”

“You forget, Lady Nym, I beat you more times than not at cyvasse.”

Her cousin laughed at that, then turned sober. “I will do as you ask, Rhaenys, I promise. But are you sure you want me to leave you alone here?”

Rhaenys was in fact not sure, but still, she answered, “I will be fine. The people have accepted me as Lady of Winterfell, and I trust them to keep me safe. If we are to win this war and truly get justice for Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen, I need you as my representative in the south.”

“I will not fail you, your grace.”

Rickon and Bran each took the news differently. Rickon was too young to understand the consequences of secession and the significance of being a prince. When Rhaenys told him that being prince did not mean he didn’t have to eat his vegetables, he pouted and said Shaggy should be prince instead of him.

Bran had become a quiet, serious child upon his paralyzing. His reaction was minimal, but Rhaenys could tell the news worried him. As the second oldest Stark brother, he was now heir to a kingdom, at least until Rhaenys gave Robb a son. And as the oldest Stark by blood in Winterfell, he was acting lord. though in name in only, as most of his duties were divided between Rhaenys and Maester Luwin. Between this, his fall, and his father’s death, it was unsurprising that the boy had become so withdrawn.

Rhaenys found herself thinking about her brother often. If Aegon had had the chance to grow up, it would have been him who would have ruled, not her. Maybe she would have still been married to Robb, or perhaps another lord, but queen she would not have been.

 _The Others take Tywin Lannister,_ she thought savagely. _If he hadn’t ordered my mother’s death, if he hadn’t ordered Aegon’s death, none of this would be happening._

Truth be told, being queen was not much different from being a lady or a princess. Her kingdom required no conquering, her castle had changed little. Still, the title rested heavy on her shoulders, and these were turbulent times.

Autumn had arrived, and with winter following soon, preparations for the coming cold had to be underway. Although Maester Luwin said it was nothing more than a superstition of the smallfolk that long summers brought long winters, Rhaenys could not help but feel otherwise. Perhaps she had heard the Stark words one too many times, but her instinct told her that winter would be coming with a vengeance.

Wars were expensive, and without the promise of aid from King’s Landing, many of the Northern finances needed to be reorganized. She couldn’t raise taxes without risking complaints from lords who had promised hundreds of men to Robb, or the danger of famine from the already vulnerable smallfolk. Rhaenys found herself staring at the ledgers more often than not, the inky numbers dancing and blurring before her eyes in the dim candlelight. Everything, even war, always came down to gold.

The Harvest Feast was almost a relief to organize, a break from her constant preparations and worrying. Dozens of Northern lords and ladies trickled in to Winterfell: Manderlys, Hornwoods, Umbers, and more. Excitement and cheer permeated through the castle's walls, as the war had not yet touched most people this far north, and the reemergence of the Kingdom of the North was excuse enough to put everyone in the mood to celebrate.

Lord Wyman Manderly bowed as deep as his large belly allowed him to, his granddaughter Wynafryd curtsying prettily beside him. “Your grace, it is an honor to meet our lovely Queen in the North at long last. Tales of your beauty were not exaggerated.”

“You flatter me too much, my Lord Manderly,” Rhaenys replied. “I wonder what it is you were thinking of asking of me.”

He let out a booming laugh. “Ah, so she is clever as well as beautiful! Though I should not be surprised, you have written me quite a few letters about White Harbor’s trade.”

Lord Manderly was the most enormous man she had ever met, but she remembered Lady Catelyn’s words, that he was far sharper than he let on. White Harbor was easily the richest city in the North, and the Manderlys were staunch allies of the Starks. If she was to be queen while Robb won his war in the south, she would need friends to help her fortify the North.

“I am glad you could come for the Harvest Feast,” she said, Lady Wynafryd and Lord Manderly a step behind her as they strolled through the courtyard. “There is much for us to speak about. I have sent an emissary to my uncle in Dorne with instructions to discuss expanding trade between our two lands, and White Harbor would be key in its success.”

He scratched his chin, deep in thought. “Trade with Dorne, you say? Aye, that could certainly be quite the boon. Tell me, your grace, what plans did you have in mind for such an agreement?”

Rhaenys glanced over to Wynafryd, a girl close in age to her with long brown hair and a sweetly rounded face. “Lady Wynafryd, what would you say the North and Dorne have in common?”

Wynafryd blinked. “I’m not sure what to say, your grace.” She spoke hesitantly. “The two regions can be as different as the sun and the moon.”

“And yet both the sun and the moon shed light for us all.” Despite the girl’s quiet demeanor, Rhaenys had a notion that Wynafryd's pretty face hid a clever mind. She was next in line to inherit White Harbor after her father, and Lord Manderly did not seem the type to suffer a fool for an heir. “If you were to negotiate a new trade deal with Dorne, what would you focus on?”

“Ships,” said Wynafryd, this time without any hesitation. “The North has not had a proper navy since the days of Brandon the Burner, and though Dorne has many a merchant vessel, they have little in the way of a navy either. With Northern raw materials, with Dornish navigational devices and foreign learnings, both kingdoms could build whole fleets of ships.”

Lord Manderly looked at his granddaughter with no small amount of pride. “With your permission, White Harbor would be honored to build the North enough ships to rival the Princess Nymeria’s own navy.”

“Ten thousand ships might be a tad excessive, but you certainly have Winterfell’s permission to break ground on a new shipyard. A charter can be drawn up soon.”

“And what would the crown invest in this project?” asked Lord Manderly.

“I will need to think on it,” said Rhaenys, playing coy. She was reluctant to part with too much coin so near to winter, but with the succession of the Hornwood lands in dispute, she could perhaps use them as some sort of repayment for Manderly cooperation. She would have to tread carefully, to avoid accusations of favoritism.

“Of course, your grace,” he said, though it was clear he would be bringing the matter back up soon. “But on subject of trade with Dorne, I agree the benefits could be long-lasting. Perhaps a change in tariffs would encourage Dornish merchants to sail further north.”

“As was my thought,” agreed Rhaenys. “Besides, Dorne has few forests, whereas the North has plentiful timber. A mutually beneficial arrangement could be reached.” The North was rich in raw materials but lacked many of the specialty items that Dorne produced. It was only distance that had kept the two lands from developing a good trade relationship, but with the center of the continent embroiled in war, now was a good time to find new friends.

“And if we are to expand our navy, Dornish fruits could be helpful in preventing sailor’s sicknesses,” offered Wynafryd.

“Excellent point, Lady Wynafryd,” said Rhaenys, offering her a warm smile. Across the courtyard, Barbrey Dustin was trying to catch her eye. “We shall discuss these matters in further detail in the coming days, but if you would excuse me, there are some matters I must go attend to.” Lady Dustin likely had words – none of them nice – for her about her request for trained leatherworkers to be sent in from the Barrowlands.

Rhaenys forced her smile back onto her lips and went to deal with the ever-delightful Lady Dustin.

 

…

_To Rhaenys Targaryen, Princess of Dorne:_

_As per your request, you have been given eyes in King’s Landing. Consider this your nameday present._

_Arya Stark has disappeared. The Lannisters are searching for her, but if she is smart, she will have left the city. Sansa Stark remains hostage in the Red Keep, still nominally engaged to King Joffrey though the poor girl seems miserable more often than not._

_Both of the old king’s brothers have crowned themselves, calling the boy king a bastard born of incest. Whether this is true is anyone’s guess, but it is obvious there is little Baratheon visible in any of the queen’s children. Stannis reigns from Dragonstone and works to curry favor with the stormlords, whose loyalties are divided. Opinions are split as to whether he is a soulless, godless man, or if he has been seduced to the red god’s worship by some witch from Asshai. Take these opinions with a grain of salt, of course. As for Renly, he has the support of the Tyrells, having made fair Margaery his queen. If the stags were to unite, they could take the city in a day, but the seven hells are likelier to freeze over._

_The city is on the brink of erupting in chaos. Food prices have skyrocketed, the smallfolk are unhappy, and it is unclear who rules. Joffrey is little more than a sadistic child, and although his word is absolute, he has no idea how to keep the peace. The queen has a small measure of control over him but indulges him far too much to do anything. She enjoys the power she has (rumor has it that a certain boar had a little womanly aid), but just like her son, cares nothing for anyone outside her family. The only person keeping the city from falling apart is the Imp, the new Hand of the King, but he is disliked by many. Unless Tywin Lannister returns from the Riverlands soon, the city will likely kill the lions before any army arrives to its gates._

The note was unsigned, not that Rhaenys would have needed any identification. The letter’s code was a favorite of Doran’s, based in part on the old Rhoynish alphabet, and the delicate lettering could only belong to dear Tyene. Her beautiful, pious, deadly cousin made the ideal spy in a city as dangerous as King’s Landing.

Rhaenys doubted she was the sole reason for Tyene’s presence in King’s Landing. Doran had his own plans, even with Rhaenys repeatedly refusing his promise of the Iron Throne. And Oberyn – well, his desire for revenge would still burn true. She sent a silent prayer to the Mother to protect her cousin in her endeavors.

She read the letter one more time, then tossed it into the fireplace. The parchment curled in on itself, ink glimmering against the fire for a moment before crumbling to ash. The situation in the South grew more complicated by the day, with four kings now having declared their legitimacy. At least Robb only claimed two lands; perhaps that would be his saving grace. The Lannisters could afford to lose the North and the Riverlands – they could not afford to lose the Iron Throne.

A knock at her solar’s door jolted her from her thoughts. She brushed off a smudge of ash from her skirts before saying, “Enter.”

Jonelle Cerwyn curtsied upon opening the door, movements brisk and efficient as ever. With Vayon Poole dead in King’s Landing, Winterfell had been left without a steward, but Jonelle, having managed her father’s castle for years now, was making a capable replacement. There had been a few comments about her unorthodox choice of a woman, but Rhaenys had used the excuse of the war to point out the lack of similarly skilled men.

“Your grace, there’s someone at the gates wishing to speak with you,” said Jonelle.

“Who is it?” asked Rhaenys absently, sifting through the mess of papers on her desk.

Jonelle hesitated. “Your grace – it’s Theon Greyjoy.”

Rhaenys’s movements stilled. “Theon Greyjoy?” she repeated, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Theon Greyjoy is not a man one is like to forget,” said Jonelle, her face twisted into remembered annoyance.

That was Theon for sure. “The man is supposed to be in the Riverlands, fighting beside the king. What reason could he have for – well, you might as well send him up. I will speak with him.”

“Right away, your grace.”

Rhaenys drummed her fingers against the polished mahogany of her desk while she waited, questions swirling through her mind. If Robb had meant to send a messenger to Winterfell, Theon was an odd choice. A dozen explanations came to her mind, none of them good.

Another knock on the door. “Enter.”

The door opened, revealing Jonelle and Theon. The usually irreverent man wore a serious expression that sent a jab of worry through Rhaenys.

“Thank you, Lady Jonelle, you may leave us,” she said.

Her steward nodded, curtsying before leaving. Theon closed the door behind him. Improper, perhaps, for a woman to be alone with a man who was not her husband, but Rhaenys got the feeling this was not a meeting meant for other ears.

“Have a seat, Theon,” she said. It was not a request. She stood, picking up a jug that hung from a peg over the fireplace. “Would you like some mulled wine?”

"Wine would be nice," said Theon, sitting. For the first time, Rhaenys noticed how tired he looked, the miles of road he wore on his clothes. Wherever he had come from, he must have ridden hard without stopping.

She poured them both generous servings of the mulled wine. Notes of cinnamon, some cloves, wafted up, mixed in with the darker base of the wine. Rhaenys handed him his cup, taking the chair across from him. “I was under the impression you were at King Robb’s side in the south.”

“What can I say, I missed the oh-so welcoming atmosphere of Winterfell.”

“Why don’t we just skip the japes and get to the part where you tell me why you are here.”

Theon took a long gulp from his cup before answering. “Robb needed ships,” he began, jumping straight in. “The only kingdom with ships that hasn’t pledged its allegiance to some king or another was the Iron Islands.”

“So he sent you to treat with your father.” That still did not explain why he was here, in Winterfell.

“Lady Stark thought it was a bad idea,” he said bitterly. “But Robb overruled her, and I was sent to Pyke. I thought that perhaps my father would be willing to mobilize the Iron Fleet against the Lannisters in exchange for the Driftwood Crown.”

Rhaenys frowned. What little she knew of Balon Greyjoy did not paint the man in a good light. “It didn’t go as planned, I imagine.”

"I went to the Iron Islands, as Robb asked," he said. "It was – different. So much had changed. I should have expected it, but I guess I had somehow managed to fool myself into assuming the Iron Islands were exactly like what a child of nine remembered. My father – well let's just say he was less happy to see me than I expected.

"I gave them Robb's offer. A crown for the Ironborn, revenge on the Iron Throne, everything they have wanted since the last rebellion. My father heard the offer and spat at it. The Ironborn pay the iron price for what is theirs, never the gold price." He took another swallow of his mulled wine. "They intend to invade the North. That's why I came here."

Rhaenys's blood turned icy. "What."

"Balon bloody Greyjoy is too old for reaving, so he's sent my sister and uncle off to do his dirty work. So much for paying the iron price with his own hands."

She stood abruptly, stalking over to her desk to find a map. "When will their ships land? Where are they planning on raiding?" Any advantage she had thought they had over the south was crumbling away by the second.

"You're like to receive ravens from the Stony Shore within the week." Theon would not meet her eyes.

She whirled around to face him. "Gods damn you, Theon Greyjoy, you were just on the coast – couldn't you at least have at least given the lords there some warning about the raiding? Or sent a raven – we could have had weeks of extra preparation!"

He scoffed. "What Northern lord is going to believe a Greyjoy's word about another Greyjoy? No, they would have laughed me out of their keeps, and that's if they didn't decide to throw me in chains out of some misguided sense of duty."

Her nails were digging into her palms. "Where else do they plan on attacking? The Stony Shore isn't wealthy enough for a full out assault. If your father intends on declaring his kinghood to Westeros again, he must have somewhere greater in mind." Her brow furrowed, mind spinning in a dozen directions at once. "Winterfell is too far inland. Deepwood Motte perhaps, or Bear Island."

"Moat Cailin. Victarion was sent to Moat Cailin."

Rhaenys let out a string of curses so filthy and blasphemous that Theon laughed, shocked.

"Careful there, your grace," he drawled. "There may be a few gods left you haven't insulted yet."

"Get fucked, Greyjoy," she snapped. Dammit. This wasn’t her. She needed to calm down. Annoyance had blended with anger had blended with panic into a confusing mess of emotion that she couldn't think through.

Breathe. Once. Twice.

_Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._

"Alright," she said, her tone even. "Tell me everything you know of your father's plans."

The sun had all but disappeared behind Winterfell's lowest building when they had finished laying everything out. Ser Rodrik had left Winterfell almost a moon ago to bring the Bolton bastard to heel, almost a thousand men at his back. Lords Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Manderly, the nearest to Winterfell with fighting men left, would be summoned, even as they were instructed to reinforce their castles. A war council needed convening, even as sand continued to spill from the hourglass.

Maester Luwin sent ravens out across the North, with especially dire warnings to Moat Cailin, Torrhen's Square, the Stony Shore, Deepwood Motte, and Bear Island. It seemed like far too little to Rhaenys, but until Ser Rodrik returned, Winterfell had no men to spare.

Hair had fallen out of her braid. She pushed it out of her face, staining her cheek in the process with ink. Gods, it was hardly dusk, and she was already exhausted. She sent for her handmaid; her supper would need to be brought to her rooms tonight. She could give Bran and Rickon her apologies later.

Back in her solar, Theon had already made himself comfortable hours ago, eating his way through the bowl of fruit she kept there for snacks. He picked at his nails with a dirk at the table, a habit she was quick to tell him was disgusting.

He shrugged. "It's been a long day. My manners aren't what they used to be."

She rolled her eyes, settling herself in her favorite armchair, another cup of the mulled wine held between her hands. She watched the fire dance for a while, sparks snapping and bursting in little fireworks before drifting back down as ash. Her ancestors had been entranced by dragonfire they said, some going so far as to claim to be fireproof. Unsurprisingly, a fair number of Targaryens had died in the flames. Still, Rhaenys had never felt that pull. Mayhaps she had less fear of it that most, but she had never considered drinking wildfire, which was more than some of her ancestors could say.

"Why did you come to Winterfell?" The sound of her own voice surprised even her.

Theon pulled at a loose thread on his cuff. "What do you mean?"

Rhaenys turned to face him better. "I mean, why did you leave Pyke? Your father must have expected you to stay and join the reavers. Why betray them and come here to warn the North?"

He flashed her a smile to cover the shadow that had fallen over his eyes. "Ned Stark's sense of foolish honor must have affected me more than I thought."

She shook her head. "That's not it."

“Maybe I just wanted to spite my father.”

“Try again.”

Theon was quiet for a while, staring deep into his cup as if it could give him the answer to her question. Finally, he spoke, voice rough. "I wasn't going to. I told myself a dozen times to just go along. I am a Greyjoy, I am Ironborn, this is who I was born to be. The North never cared for me, so why should I?"

"So what changed?"

His jaw clenched. “When I first arrived, there were longships already being prepared in the harbor. My father could not have known I was coming, yet he prepared for war. He knew the consequences of his actions, yet he had already crowned himself.”

Theon Greyjoy had been brought to Winterfell as assurance of his father’s good behavior. Had Balon Greyjoy ever chosen to attack the other kingdoms again, his son’s life would have been forfeit.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice low.

“What, that my father had given me up for dead years ago?” scoffed Theon. “That he started training my sister to be his heir the moment I left for the greenlands? That my own homeland forgot about me? Don’t waste your sympathy.”

“What, you don’t think I understand? My father abandoned my mother and his own children to go off gallivanting with a girl of five-and-ten. My father left me to die, and it is only by the gods own graces that I did not.” It had been so long since she had spoken of her father that she could not help the bitterness that slipped out.

Theon looked at her in surprise. “Everyone speaks about Rhaegar as though he had been the perfect silver prince, even after he kidnapped Lyanna Stark.”

“There are no perfect silver princes out there,” she muttered. “Only selfish men who gorge themselves on the praise of others.”

“There’s Robb.”

Robb. Oh, how she missed him. Good, kind Robb. What had war shaped him into, she wondered. Had the blood weakened his stomach, or had it hardened his heart? When his lords had crowned him king, had he been flush with triumph, or had he merely mourned his father?

“Robb isn’t some silver prince,” she said. “He’s a king.” She smiled softly. “How was he, last you saw?”

Theon’s eyebrows quirked with innuendo and Rhaenys shot him a glare. He laughed. “Your husband is well, don’t you fret. He takes to command like a fish to water. Hasn’t lost a battle yet. He yelled at me once when I suggested he take one of the prettier camp followers to bed in celebration.”

“You’re a menace,” she said, but the mention of Robb had lifted her spirits a bit, giving her words less bite. In a weird way, hearing Theon's words was reassuring. She arched an eyebrow. “Robb is why you left Pyke, is he not?”

“I already told you –”

“A person can have multiple reasons for their actions. I’m right though, aren’t I?”

 “Must you make me speak of this?” he said, scowling.

“Oh, lighten up. I’m not trying to be cruel, I’m just curious. Your family might have us all killed by the year’s end. When else will we get the opportunity to speak honestly?”

Theon glared at her, but it carried less heat. Finally, he sighed. “I made an oath, that day the lords proclaimed him King in the North. I knelt before Robb and swore to serve him as my king, from this day until my last. In the end, blood ties to a family that cared nothing for me meant less than that oath."

Rhaenys recalled that conversation they had had so long ago, the raucous feast buzzing around them, air thick with the scent of ale. She had never hidden her dislike for Theon, but she found herself oddly beginning to empathize with the man.

"Houses, blood, names, in the end, they're nothing more than lies we tell ourselves." Deep in the fire, she could swear she saw her reflection. "I am a Targaryen, but I would rather walk over hot coals than ever sit on the Iron Throne. That throne, the legacy of my ancestors, all of it can turn to ash. We all have the right to choose our own paths, not just follow those our forefathers laid out for us.”

…

As during the Harvest Feast, Winterfell was bursting at the seams with guests once more, but this time, a heavy undercurrent of tension could be felt throughout its halls, the specter of war hanging just outside the walls. News of raids on the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point had begun to arrive, but the worst had been the raven announcing the fall of Deepwood Motte to Asha Greyjoy. The keep had been warned, but even if the raven had arrived in time, too many Glover bannermen had gone south for the keep to be defended.

Ser Rodrik had returned at last, Ramsay Snow’s manservant thrown unceremoniously into a dungeon to await the king’s justice. Soon after him, lords and ladies had arrived in droves from the nearest holdfasts. Cley Cerwyn came first, followed soon by Leobald Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square. Lady Barbrey Dustin of the Barrowlands arrived shortly after, claiming to speak on her father’s behalf while Lord Ryswell guarded his shores from the Ironborn raiders.

Everyone was clear on the fact that the North needed to mobilize against the Ironborn, and fast. How to do that however, was a matter of opinion.

Barbrey Dustin and Leobald Tallhart were of the opinion that they should march west immediately and expel the Ironborn from the coast without mercy. Ser Martyn, the Manderly representative alongside Lady Wynafryd, agreed with Ser Rodrik that it was more important to hold Moat Cailin, for if the fortress fell, access to the North would be cut off. Cley Cerwyn’s suggestion to recall some of Robb’s men was considered for a moment before Rhaenys mentioned the unlikelihood of that being a possible or a quick enough solution.

Simply put, there were not enough men left in the North to fight a war on two fronts. There were just under two thousand bannermen who could be spared, not enough to defend a land as vast as the North.

Rhaenys stared at the map spread across her solar’s table, the arguing of the lords around her turning to white noise. She had played cyvasse a thousand times against Nymeria, against Sarella, against Doran. War was nothing more than a more complicated version of the game, she told herself.

An artistic rendition of a snarling bear drew her eye further north on the map. She frowned, the tendrils of a tentative plan starting to come together in her mind.

“What about the mountain clans?” she asked, interrupting an acidic comment from Lady Dustin.

“What about the mountain clans?” asked Ser Martyn, scratching his white beard. “They are a fierce people, I very much doubt they will need help defending their mountains from the Ironborn.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “I mean, how many men could they muster? Not many joined King Robb’s banners; Maester Luwin said they rarely go south.”

Ser Rodrik frowned. “Two thousand men, I would say. What were you thinking, your grace?”

Rhaenys had not spoken much throughout the various war councils, but with every eye on her, she could not help but straighten her back. She was at least half a head shorter than every other person in the room she noticed, wincing.

“What if someone went to rally the mountain clans to send their men to the coast and repel the Ironborn? That would free up the rest of the bannermen at Winterfell to march south and stop Victarion Greyjoy.”

Lady Dustin murmured something to her manservant. Ser Rodrik stroked his whiskers in contemplation.

Leobald Tallhart crossed his arms. “And how long would it take to round up the mountain clans and convince them?” he said. “Are we supposed to leave the coast open to raiding until they decide to march? The west may be devastated by the time the Ironborn are finally gone.”

Rhaenys pressed her lips together. “I see your point, but there are hard decisions we must make. Moat Cailin guards the road north, we cannot let it fall into Ironborn hands.”

“Moat Cailin is one of the strongest castles in the North, I am sure it can hold off a few krakens.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “With most of the banners in the south, I do not believe there are enough men to defend it against a full-blown assault.”

“With all due respect, your grace, my duty is to Torrhen’s Square,” he said. “The krakens could very well choose to sail upriver and take Torrhen’s Square while our men are in the Neck. They already captured my nephew, gods know where the poor boy is now. No, your grace, I will not risk my people on the possibility the mountain clans can rouse themselves from their keeps.” His jaw was set at a stubborn, proud angle.

Wynafryd Manderly leaned forward. “Victarion Greyjoy is Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet,” she said, speaking up for the first time. “He will likely be taking the strength of the Iron Fleet to Moat Cailin, the most important target of the Ironborn. Would it not make more sense to focus our men on protecting the Neck from such an attack while the mountain clans focus on the coast?”

Ser Rodrik nodded in agreement. “The mountain clans have a long history of raiding from the Ironborn. They know how the Ironborn think, and I’m certain they would relish the opportunity to fight them. I agree with the queen, a two-pronged attack with Moat Cailin being the first objective seems like the best approach.”

Leobald Tallhart scoffed. “Are we supposed to base our attack on the word of Theon Greyjoy? Aye, he says his uncle plans on taking Moat Cailin, yet we have had no sighting of longships by the Flint Cliffs. The krakens have always raided the west coast, we know they have already begun raiding there now, so why take the word of a Greyjoy traitor and divert our banners south?”

“You are not taking only Theon Greyjoy’s word, Master Leobald,” she said, clenching her fingers in the cloth of her skirts. “It is my word you are taking as well, and I can assure you that Victarion Greyjoy _will_ be attacking Moat Cailin. If Balon Greyjoy is to assert himself upon the Salt Throne once more, he needs a bold move, he needs to showcase the strength of the Ironborn, and nothing would do that better than taking the North’s most important fortress.”

Leobald Tallhart’s expression turned stormy. “I will not risk the safety of Torrhen’s Square based on nothing more than the word of a kraken traitor and a Dornish whore!”

The room froze, the sudden outburst stunning everyone into shocked silence. Rhaenys squared her shoulders and kept her eyes chilly.

“I am aware that you are worried about your nephew and your people, Master Leobald,” she said, voice as steady and even as the balance of a sword. “And I also hope that you, Master Leobald, are aware that this Dornish whore’s husband is the king to whom you are pledged to obey. This Dornish whore would be completely within her rights, if she wanted, to have your tongue cut out for your disrespect.” A flicker of panic crossed his face. “You are lucky this Dornish whore would only like to win the very same war we are all fighting.”

Leobald Tallhart turned red and dropped his gaze. “My sincerest apologies, your grace, I do not know what came over me.”

Rhaenys nodded her acknowledgment. “Then it is settled. Unless someone else can find a reason to not take this approach, we shall march south to Moat Cailin while the mountain clans fight the Ironborn along the coast.”

Everyone murmured in agreement. Barbrey Dustin, a notoriously unsmiling woman, had the ghost of an amused smirk on her lips.

The rest of the meeting went much smoother, the details of the new plan being ironed out. Ser Rodrik would be sent to the mountains to speak with the clans as a representative of House Stark, and then lead them against the Ironborn on the coasts. Ravens would be sent to Greywater Watch on the hope that the crannogmen could try to slow the advance of the Ironborn through the Neck. Leobald Tallhart, for all his stubborn arrogance, was one of the few experienced commanders left in the North and would lead two thousand men south to fight Victarion Greyjoy and his men.

And Rhaenys, Queen in the North, would accompany them when they departed in three days.

…

“Must you go south?” asked Bran, eyes fixed on his knees. After several failed attempts, Maester Luwin had managed to build him a successful replica of the wheeled chair Doran Martell used, based on schematics Rhaenys had requested from the maester in Sunspear. Bran sat in the new chair now, the heavy fur cloak around his shoulders dwarfing his already slight frame.

“I’m sorry, Bran,” Rhaenys said softly. “I must. Ser Rodrik has to go speak with the mountain clans, and there is no one else left I can trust to lead a host to war alone.” She pressed a quick, hard kiss to his brow. “You will be safe in Winterfell, I promise. Maester Luwin and Lady Jonelle will be here to help you with your duties as lord, and I am leaving a hundred men for the castle guard. Besides, with Rickon and the Reeds to keep you company, you’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

Summer nudged Bran with his snout, a clumsy gesture of comfort that put a small smile on Bran’s face.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll take care of Winterfell as well as you or Robb, you’ll see.”

She smiled at him. “You’re strong and brave, Bran, I know you are going to do an excellent job.”

Rhaenys straightened, smoothing her skirts. Jonelle Cerwyn squeezed her hand in farewell, and she gave her new friend a small smile. “Take care of Bran,” she told her. “You and Maester Luwin. Don’t let him get too lonely. And keep Rickon from getting too wild, those Frey boys aren’t the best influence.”

“Winterfell’s princes will be well-cared for, worry not,” said Jonelle. “Stay safe, your grace.”

Rhaenys’s chest felt tight at the thought of leaving Winterfell, the castle she had helped run for over a year, its people she had grown to care for. Gods, even Bran and Rickon felt like the little brothers she had never gotten to see grow up. Aegon had become little more than a blurry memory of a chubby-cheeked infant, a dozen questions of what he could have been, but Bran and Rickon were here, they were tangible.

Rickon was not in the courtyard to see her off, having disappeared into the godswood with Shaggydog in a tantrum after she told him of her departure. Nothing she had said seemed to appease the poor boy. To him, it seemed like yet another person leaving. The wildling Osha had promised Rhaenys she could watch him, not that it helped her guilt.

Rhaenys swung herself up onto her mount, a coffee-colored mare who stood steady beneath her. Her riding skirts were slit to allow her to sit properly astride, though the heavy wool was bulkier and more awkward than the riding silks she used to wear. It was too cold for anything lighter though, so she arranged them as best she could.

She squared her shoulders, ready for the ride ahead. She took one last look at the courtyard, at Bran, Maester Luwin, Septon Chayle, Osha, Jonelle Cerwyn, everyone who she had come to know over the past year.

It was with her heart in her throat that she passed through the gates at last, joining the banners as they set off south down the Kingsroad. Stark direwolves soared high above, fluttering down the road for miles ahead, interspersed with Cerwyn axes, Tallhart trees, Locke keys, and more.

Rhaenys pulled her cloak tighter around herself. Spending so much time within the heated walls of Winterfell had spoiled her, the true nature of a Northern autumn having been often avoidable. Though in Dorne the weather would still be sweltering, freezing temperatures had already come to the North. The moors glittered glass-bright from last night’s frost, crunching under the hooves of her horse.

A host did not move fast, weighed down by supply wagons and infantry, but still they made good time south, the Kingsroad already worn down by the imprints of countless travelers over the years. Rhaenys’s accommodations were simple, but comfortable enough to befit her status, though she began to appreciate more fully her featherbed back in Winterfell. Her days riding were spent chatting with Lady Wynafryd, exchanging snippy comments with Theon, and trying to learn tidbits about army command from Leobald Tallhart. Those conversations were stilted, his previous comments not forgotten, but for all that she wanted to remove his tongue for his insults, she knew it would be more productive if she struck up a tentative understanding with him.

A fortnight out from Moat Cailin, while stopping at the keep of some petty lord, they learned of the fortress’s fall to the Ironborn. Victarion Greyjoy had sailed his longships up the Saltspear and the Fever River to land a stone’s throw from Moat Cailin, taking it in a nighttime attack. However, scouts reported that the Ironborn had sustained heavy losses, the men there already having been warned of a possible western attack.

It was at this forgettable keep, the air musty with the smell of old hay, that Rhaenys, Leobald Tallhart, and Ser Martyn planned a siege. Cley Cerwyn joined the meetings, but despite his title of heir, he was still but a boy, battle-green and untested. Theon joined as well on Rhaenys’s insistence, though she did not miss the nasty looks he got from the rest of the lords.

“The Ironborn have little more than a foothold in the North,” said Ser Martyn. “They have no smallfolk’s harvest to rely upon, no understanding of the land. They will not last long here.”

“Be that as it may, as long as they continue to receive supplies from the Islands, they will last in Moat Cailin indefinitely,” said Leobald Tallhart.

Rhaenys nodded. “So we cut off their supply line,” she said. “Lord Leobald, what would you recommend?”

Leobald Tallhart’s chest puffed up in pride. His change from disparaging comments to actively seeking her praise had given Rhaenys slight whiplash, but she couldn’t deny it made these war council sessions more productive.

“We target their ships,” he replied. “Burn them, scuttle them, sink them. Without their ships, the Ironborn cannot escape, cannot call for reinforcements. There is little in the way of a harbor in the Fever River to protect them, and Moat Cailin is too far to respond quickly to such an attack. Once the longships are gone, the siege will go quickly.”

Ser Martyn frowned. “Should we be preparing for any trickery from the Ironborn? This is the first time they’ve attempted anything like this; perhaps there is something else they are planning.”

Theon snorted. “Victarion is a dullard and a brute. I’m surprised he had enough creativity in his brain to even come up with the idea to take Moat Cailin. No, whatever my uncle chooses to do, he will do it in the open, and I doubt it will be anything original.”

“Very well then,” said Rhaenys, drumming her fingers on the table’s scratched wood. “We sink the ships, then prepare for a siege. Ser Martyn, Lady Wynafryd mentioned your expertise in siege weapons. For Moat Cailin, what were you thinking?”

The planning went well into the night. A sennight later, the Stark forces arrived at the Fever River.

The siege of Moat Cailin broke in less than a moon.

…

Moat Cailin had once been a great stronghold, a jewel of the Kingdom of the North. Thousands of years after being built, it was still imposing, though not much more than three towers had stood the test of time. Green and white moss covered much of the black basalt, and the swampy air had turned most surfaces dangerously slick.

Rhaenys picked her way across the courtyard with care, skirts held high above the ground. Though the stronghold’s defenses were formidable, it was almost just as dangerous to be inside the castle. With luck, she would not need to be here longer than necessary.

“Careful, your grace.” Howland Reed reached out to steady her when she lost her footing on a slippery step.

“My thanks, Lord Reed.”

Howland Reed and his crannogmen had appeared in the siege camp one night, like creatures conjured from the mist. When she had asked how they had managed to get past Moat Cailin when the only path went through the fortress itself, he had merely smiled and given some enigmatic answer about the Neck providing paths to its own. Rhaenys had not pressed the issue. The crannogmen had been instrumental in sneaking past Ironborn defenses, and no one knew the Neck like they did.

They reached the lower level of the Gatehouse Tower at long last. A guard held his torch higher, the yellow light weak in the murky darkness. Leobald Tallhart and Theon were already here, the latter’s face blank and stony. Behind them, behind rusted iron bars, stood Victarion Greyjoy, arms crossed over a powerful chest. Rhaenys met his gaze and did not blink.

“Your grace.” Leobald Tallhart bowed, Theon following suit after a beat. Victarion Greyjoy just glared.

“Well met, Lord Victarion,” greeted Rhaenys, her courtesy as poisonous as a crannogman’s blade.

He spat. The spittle missed the hem of her gown by a good foot, landing on the dark stone in front of her.

“Show some respect to the Queen in the North,” barked Leobald Tallhart, partially unsheathing his sword.

Rhaenys raised her hand. “It’s all right, Master Leobald. We did just defeat him and a good part of the Iron Fleet. He has a right to be angry.” She turned to Theon. “How many of our men did it take to get him in chains?”

“He killed five before getting knocked out by a Hornwood bannerman,” he said, never taking his eyes from his uncle.

Victarion turned his glare upon his nephew. “Turncloak,” he growled. “Theon Turncloak, that’s what they’ll call you. You betrayed your blood, your house. May the Drowned God cast you down and punish you justly for your sins.”

Rhaenys made a note to keep Theon from getting too into his cups that evening.

“That’s enough, Lord Victarion,” she warned. “Speak again and your tongue will be removed.” The man glared at her but fell mercifully silent.

“Your grace, if I may?” She nodded to Leobald Tallhart. “Are you sure keeping him alive is the smartest course of action?” He kept his voice low and cast a nervous look towards Victarion. “It would be well within your rights to take his head for his actions against the Northern crown.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “The Iron Islands are far too volatile at the moment to let a hostage like Victarion Greyjoy slip through our fingers. We may need him one day.”

Balon Greyjoy’s days in this world were numbered, she mused, and there was no clear contender for his successor. Mayhaps keeping Victarion as a hostage would prove to be useless, but until then, he would be kept in a clean dungeon, with decent food and water. He was still a lord after all.

Leobald Tallhart nodded, though he still looked uneasy. “I shall go ensure the cart for transporting him to Winterfell is being properly prepared.” He bowed again and took his leave.

“Theon,” muttered Rhaenys. Then again, louder. “Lord Theon.” He finally turned away from his uncle to look at her. “Why don’t you go check on the refortifications at the Drunkard’s Wall? Make sure the men aren’t making it more crooked than it already is.”

Theon nodded and left without a word.

“Lord Reed, would you mind escorting me to my chambers?” she asked. “I must confess to have forgotten where the guard said he had left my things.”

Howland Reed smiled genially. “Of course, your grace. If you will just follow me, I will show you to the lord’s chambers.”

Casting one last cool look at Victarion Greyjoy, Rhaenys left the dungeons with Howland Reed a step behind.

“The Marsh Kings once ruled the Neck from Moat Cailin, isn’t that right Lord Reed?” She mostly just meant to make conversation with the mysterious man, but she did find herself curious about the Neck.

“Aye, your grace,” he said. “Just as the Reeds of today are loyal bannermen to the Starks, the Reeds of many thousands of years ago were once loyal bannermen to the Marsh Kings. They say they built Moat Cailin with the help of the Children.”

“That would be how the Children’s Tower got its name then.”

“Precisely. They say the magic of the forest is stronger in the Neck than anywhere else in the North, excluding the Wall of course.”

Rhaenys had always been skeptical about magic. Curious, but skeptical. Once upon a time it had been the greatest source of heated debate between her and Sarella.

“Prince Brandon once mentioned your son Jojen talks about greendreams,” she said, careful not to sound too doubtful.

“Greendreams have always been common among the crannogmen,” said Lord Reed. "My wife Jyana has them, as did her grandfather before her. Mayhaps my grandchildren someday will have them too.”

Rhaenys hummed in acknowledgement. The tales of magic in the North were far different than the tales from Dorne, tales of Rhoynish magic and sea-witches. Lord Reed spoke of greendreams so frankly that it felt hard to doubt his certainty.

“Well, thank you for accompanying me to my rooms, my lord,” she said, realizing they had stopped outside a heavy oaken door on the upper levels of the tower.

Howland Reed bowed his head. “It was my pleasure, your grace.” He hesitated for a moment. “Your grace, when your husband marches North again, I would very much like to host the both of you at Greywater Watch. I knew his father quite well, and there is much I believe we could discuss.”

There was something odd about his tone, more crannog secrets that Rhaenys could only dream of uncovering.

“I would very much like that, Lord Reed,” she said, feeling oddly somber. “After the war.”

“Aye, your grace. After the war.”

…

_To Rhaenys Targaryen, Princess of Dorne:_

_Tywin Lannister has found a traitor within the Young Wolf’s lords. Be cautious. Don’t forget the Rains._

Rhaenys read the letter once, twice, before crumpling it in her fist, a piece of wax falling to the floor. A raven had arrived from Winterfell, the message forwarded on by Maester Luwin. As usual, it was unsigned, but Rhaenys had grown accustomed to Tyene’s missives.

A spy within Robb’s council. No, a traitor. The distinction was important; a spy passed along information while a traitor slid knives into the backs of those he was sworn to.

Rhaenys found it difficult to believe that a northern lord would side with a southron lord as disliked as Tywin Lannister. Northern loyalties ran deep, and the Starks were the oldest family in Westeros. She ran through the names of the lords in her mind, each as unlikely as the next. Perhaps one of the riverlords? She did not know much about them, though her official titles did name her Queen of the Trident.

Robb could win a fair war, of that Rhaenys had to be confident. But a traitor in his midst, that was no fight he knew. He expected the same honor he held to himself from everyone. No, if Tywin Lannister had the loyalty of even one of the Northern lords, the fate of House Stark would be the same as that of House Reyne.

Rhaenys buried her head in her hands, willing herself to keep breathing. Gods be good, what could she do? Even if a raven managed to reach Robb’s ears with a warning, that would do little good. She had no proof, no names to give, and she wasn’t certain he could uncover trickery as masterful as Tywin Lannister’s.

She could – no, she promised Bran. She promised Bran she would return to Winterfell as soon as Moat Cailin had been retaken, and there was still so much left to do in the North. Ser Rodrik and the mountain clans had just started marching on Deepwood Motte, there were still many Ironborn left to repel. Winterfell needed a proper leader, to prepare for the coming winter.

But what good was any of that if there was no North left to protect?

…

Rhaenys slept little that night, spending most of it tossing and turning, her mind whirring with the decision to make. By morning, her anxieties were no less, but her path was clear. She had to go south, warn Robb, and find the traitor.

Convincing Leobald Tallhart and Ser Martyn was not easy. She refused to say much on the matter, but a woman riding straight to the heart of a war was dangerous. Regardless, she had managed to gain a modicum of respect as their queen, and they had little choice but to promise to keep Moat Cailin guarded and send reinforcements north to deal with the rest of the Ironborn.

Theon Greyjoy, upon hearing of the news, laughed straight to her face. “You can’t be serious.”

 “A different queen would have you punished for your regular impertinence,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

He rolled his eyes. “You find my impertinence amusing, admit it. But really, going south? The Riverlands are a violent mess, it’s not exactly safe, _your grace.”_

“I won’t be traveling alone. You will be accompanying me.”

Theon’s expression turned sour. “Even if your idea of travelling to Riverrun weren’t absolutely terrible, I don’t think my presence would be very appreciated. My people are still raiding the Stony Shore, unless you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Her tone had gone icy. “But Ser Rodrik is a capable man, he will take care of the Ironborn. There are more pressing matters down south, and you are coming with me. The Northern lords would never forgive me if I left a Greyjoy unattended in Winterfell.”

His jaw clenched. “What do I have to do to prove that I don’t plan on betraying Robb?”

Her words had cut deeper than she had intended. Rhaenys sighed and sank down into a chair.

“My apologies, Theon,” she said. “I didn’t mean it as an indictment of yourself. I just meant that regardless of your trustworthiness, the Northern lords still view you with suspicion. I do trust you, even if I don’t particularly like you sometimes.”

Theon took a seat across from her, elbows perched on the table. “So why are you going south? You’re certainly not a foolish woman; you know your strengths don’t exactly lie on the battlefield.”

Rhaenys fixed him with a long, studying look. There was no way Tyene’s letter could be referring to Theon. If he was going to betray Robb, he would have done it already, would have sided with his father. The Lannisters were no friends of the Ironborn, and the likelihood of an alliance between the two was as likely as an alliance between Dorne and the Reach.

Finally, she spoke. “There is someone working for Tywin Lannister in Robb’s council.”

Theon leaned back. His eyes narrowed. “How did you learn this?”

“I have my ways.”

“Why would one of the Northern lords betray Robb for the Lannisters?”

She shrugged. “Gold, most likely. Lack of honor. The promise of power. There’s a dozen reasons men would turn their backs on their liege lord, none of them good.”

“You could just send a letter to Robb warning him.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You know Robb better than most people. How good do you think he would be at finding a traitor in his midst?”

“Terrible.” Theon sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “The most honorable person I know, and he assumes everyone operates with the same level of honor his father taught him.”

“Exactly. If it’s up to him to find the traitor, he never will. He is far too blind to people’s faults.” Rhaenys closed her eyes for a moment. “I need to go south to talk to him, but mostly to talk to the lords myself. See what I can find out.”

Theon nodded. “Alright then. It seems we are going to Riverrun.”

“I didn’t need your permission, Theon Greyjoy, but thank you anyway,” she told him, tone dry.

“You are an exceedingly difficult person you know.”

Rhaenys stood. “Yes, well, I am a queen.” The word lay heavy and unwieldy on her tongue. “No queen ever achieved anything by acquiescing to the will of others.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The edit for this chapter is [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/177843122751/the-crownless-again-shall-be-q-u-e-e-n-of-all-the).
> 
> Next up: we catch up with Robb....


	4. aut concilio, aut ense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb sank into a chair, forehead resting on his hands. “I know. Seven hells, do I know it.” He raised his head to meet her eyes, mouth twisted in regret. “I don’t know how to do this, Rhae. I don’t know how to win this war without compromising everything my father taught me.”
> 
> Rhaenys dropped to her knees in front of him, capturing his hands with hers. “I’m not asking you to compromise who you are. You are a good man, Robb Stark, and not even a war can change that. But if you do not bend a little, you will break.”
> 
> “Says a princess of Dorne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back with Robb! I only touch on what's been happening in the South, but for the most part, it's the same as in book canon. There are a couple key differences though:
> 
> \- The agreement with Walder Frey was for a betrothal for Arya and a couple other minor things. Since Robb is already married, he's off the table.  
> \- Since Bran and Rickon never "die", Catelyn never releases Jaime. But he does manage to escape, and Brienne is sent to find him. That arc goes different than canon (since Brienne is just trying to bring him back to Riverrun), but there's still the emotional arc that's important to Jaime's development. He makes it to King's Landing, but loses a hand in the process. Feel free to brainstorm the details of what happens in the middle yourself.  
> \- No Jeyne Westerling storyline. Robb is not the type to cheat on his wife, and he never receives the news that Bran and Rickon are dead that in canon made him emotionally vulnerable enough to sleep with her. I love her though, so we shall assume that Jeyne is happy, finds some nice Westerlander man who will treat her right, and nothing bad ever happens to her, the end.
> 
> Enjoy!

_iv. aut concilio, aut ense - by counsel or by the sword_

 

 

The towers of Riverrun rose high above its moat, the Trident rushing beneath sheer sandstone walls. It was smaller than Winterfell but handsomely built, with redwood gates and stones that shone a warm yellow in spite of the recent battles. Tully banners flapped red and blue in the wind below the snarling Stark direwolf, declaring to the world the castle’s loyalties.

The first leg of the journey had been quiet. Rhaenys and Theon had departed from Moat Cailin with Howland Reed and a small retinue. The crannogmen had guided them through the swampy land of the Neck, showing them the safest routes that would avoid the ever-dangerous lizard-lions.

Once in the Riverlands however, they had been on their own: Theon, Rhaenys, and a Ser Garin, an older Dornish knight that had followed her up from Sunspear. Here, her title was more risk than privilege, and they had begun dressing like smallfolk to avoid being targeted by clansmen raiders from the Mountains of the Moon, bandits, or Lannister soldiers. Rhaenys had kept herself cloaked often, her distinctive Dornish looks standing out sharply this far north. Regular raiding by Tywin Lannister’s lackeys and the high feeding demands of the Tully and Stark armies had left the fertile Riverlands in disarray, and they had passed many pillaged farms left abandoned.

They were not the only travelers on the roads or rivers, not by far. Refugees trickled towards Riverrun or King’s Landing by the dozens in hope of asylum, some in family groups, some drifting alone. Occasionally they would pass a child travelling alone and Rhaenys would insist on pressing a few coins to their small hands. Theon complained that this would get her discovered, kidnapped, or worse, but she would quiet him with a sharp look. The riverlords had proclaimed Robb king of the Trident, making her queen to everyone here, regardless of if anyone knew or cared. A queen had a responsibility to her people, and the Riverlands had suffered far too much already.

The road leading up to Riverrun’s walls was crowded with people: vendors selling their wares, bannermen milling about, smallfolk seeking refuge. Among everyone, Rhaenys, Theon, and Ser Garin blended right in, just three more travelers in dusty cloaks, hems speckled with mud.

Once at the gate, she pulled her hood down and loosened the scarf she had tied around her hair. Even with the scarf down, she looked nothing like a queen, travel-worn as she was. Still, she approached a guard with her head held high, sitting tall on her tired mount.

“Your purpose for entering Riverrun?” The guard in Tully colors directed his question past her shoulder to Theon.

Rhaenys gave the man a cool look. “I have business to discuss with the king.”

He looked at her derisively. “Everyone does. If you need an audience with King Robb or Lord Tully, they are held in the mornings. Come back tomorrow.”

She didn’t blame the guard for ignoring her like this, seeing nothing more than perhaps some poor merchant’s daughter before him. Still, her tone was clipped when she next addressed him.

“I don’t believe his grace will take kindly to hearing his wife was kept waiting by his own guards.”

The guard guffawed at that. Ser Garin made to pull his sword out, but she sent him a sharp look to stay his hand.

“What’re you saying, that King Robb married _you?”_ The guard leered at her. “Rhaenys Targaryen is at Winterfell and you are here, looking nothing like a Targaryen.”

Another guard, who until now had kept quiet, smacked his companion on the arm. “Everyone says Queen Rhaenys looks more Dornish than dragon, you idiot. She could be telling the truth.”

“Yeah, but what self-respecting noble lady would dress like that?”

Theon, looking torn between general amusement and a responsibility to protect Rhaenys, spoke up. “The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either you’re right, and we are lying to you. If you take us to the king, he sorts everything out, and you can toss us into the moat or whatever you’d like. Of course, if _we_ are right, if this woman is indeed Queen in the North and the Trident, I rather doubt his grace would much appreciate his dear wife being held up by you two.”

The guards looked uneasily at each other. Finally, the first one relented.

“If we find out you were lying, and we interrupted the king’s council meetings for some lowborn wench, my friend and I are going to be none too happy,” he warned. “Come on in, _your grace._ ”

Rhaenys gave them a thin smile and followed the first guard inside.

“This is why I said you should have brought some of your gown and jewels,” Theon muttered to her.

“Ser Garin almost lost an eye to bandits,” she hissed back. That was true: an ambush had given the older knight a new scar across his eyebrow, as well as a rather impressive tale to tell with it. “If we had been carrying anything as obvious as rubies, we would all be dead in a ditch somewhere.”

They dismounted by the stables, handing off their horses to a bored stableboy. The guard waved them onwards, leading them inside the keep, past the Great Hall towards some private audience chamber.

Glancing back at them, the guard knocked once, twice.

“What is it?” called a voice from within.

“My lords, there is someone here to see the king.” The guard hesitated, unsure of what to say. “She says she knows him.”

A beat passed. The door opened, revealing a red-headed stranger that could only be Edmure Tully. He looked at her with confusion. Further inside, Robb stood abruptly as she came into his view.

“Rhaenys,” he breathed.

Behind her, the guard let out a choked curse.

“My king.” Rhaenys sank into a deep curtsy.

Robb crossed the room in a flash, jerking to a stop just inches in front of her. Her hands clenched at her sides with a need to reach out and touch him, but she was too painfully aware of the others in the room looking on.

Grey Wind, on the other hand, was bound by no courtly proprieties, and the direwolf bounded forward, almost knocking her over with sheer force alone.

Rhaenys laughed, scratching his ears in greeting. “Hello to you too, Grey Wind. Gods, you’ve grown.” Dining on Lannister bannermen, she thought, given the wary way much of the room looked at the direwolf. She ought to fear him, this primordial beast that could snap her neck in a single bite, but she had seen him grow from a pup, had seen the way he was bonded to Robb, and knew that it was only Robb’s enemies that had anything to fear from Grey Wind.

“Rhaenys,” Robb repeated, eyes bluer than she recalled. “You’re here. How –”

“We have much to discuss I’m afraid,” she said.

Robb’s gaze slid past her and darkened. There was a rustle of fabric as Theon shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sure we do,” Robb said.

She laid a warning hand on his arm. “We should speak in private.” There were too many people in the room, too many eyes on them. Catelyn Stark, Greatjon Umber, Roose Bolton, and Maege Mormont were only a few of the people that she recognized, among other lords she assumed were Tully bannermen. Some looked on the scene with amusement, others with curiosity, a few with suspicion.

Catelyn stood and made her way over, full skirts swishing around her. “Your grace.” She curtsied, a change in roles that Rhaenys found odd. “Bran and Rickon, how are they?” Her polite tone was undercut by anxiety.

Rhaenys gave her goodmother a reassuring smile. “Safe in Winterfell, I promise. I doubled the guard before leaving, just in case, but you have nothing to worry about, my lady.”

Catelyn nodded, though she did not seem entirely reassured.

Rhaenys turned back to Robb. “I didn’t mean to interrupt a meeting, but there is much we need to discuss.”

“Right, of course.” To the rest of the lords, he said, “The matter of Lord Karstark will be left for the morrow. Until then, everyone is dismissed.” The authority in his voice was unmistakable.

The lords trickled out of the chamber without complaint. With only Theon and Grey Wind left in the room with them, Robb pulled Rhaenys in for a tight hug, his body solid around her.

“Gods I've missed you,” he murmured, his breath tickling her neck. She gripped his jerkin, the cloth rough and oh-so real under her fingers.

"It's good to see you again," she said, because there was nothing she could say that could properly convey the rush of relief she had felt upon seeing him again.

Theon coughed awkwardly. Robb pulled away, jaw clenching as he looked at his friend.

“What happened, Theon?” There was an undercurrent of hurt to his voice. “I sent you to Pyke to get your father’s support, not to have him attack the North. Some of the lords believe you betrayed me for your father.”

Theon shook his head. The insecurity he usually hid with quips and arrogance lay just beneath the surface. “I went to Pyke like you asked, but I promise Robb, I never betrayed you. When I learned of my father’s plans, I left for Winterfell to warn everyone.”

“It sounds like you were too late.”

“Theon is telling the truth, Robb,” said Rhaenys. “Yes, he was too late to stop the attacks, but if he hadn’t come when he did, mobilizing the bannermen would have taken much longer.”

Robb’s eyes remained steely, trained on Theon until his shoulders slumped and he dropped his gaze. For the first time since arriving, Rhaenys looked at him properly. In the one year Robb had been at war, he seemed to have aged ten. A new crown rested on his brow: a heavy circlet of hammered bronze and miniature longswords. His hair had grown long, the ends skimming his shoulders, and reddish-brown scruff covered his jaw. Dark shadows lay beneath his eyes, hinting at long nights and uneasy sleep. Robb may not have been some soft, wide-eyed innocent before, but the war had hardened him, shaping him into one of the stone statues in Winterfell’s crypts.

“I trust you.” He removed the crown and set it on the table, rubbing at the red indents it left on his forehead. “But seven hells, couldn’t your father have chosen to attack the Lannisters instead?”

Theon gave him a wry smile. “My father was never known for his intelligence. He would rather declare war on the entire world than swallow his pride and ally with anyone.”

Rhaenys decided it best not to point out the similarities between the estranged father and son at that moment.

“Well, what’s done is done.” Robb grasped Theon’s shoulder and pulled him into a bear hug. “It _is_ good to see you, Theon.”

“You too, Stark.”

Theon was the first to pull away, though Rhaenys doubted Robb noticed the flash of emotion that had flickered across his face before being replaced with the usual loose arrogance.

Robb took her hand, tangling their fingers together. “I don’t know how you did it but thank you.” His blue eyes were intense on her. “Before we heard of your capture of Victarion Greyjoy, I thought the lords were about to string me up by my feet for losing Moat Cailin.”

She squeezed his hand. “I promised I would hold the North for you, didn’t I?”

The kiss he brushed across her lips was feather-light.

“Do I need to give the two of you some room?” asked Theon, voice sly with innuendo.

Robb flushed. “Shove off, Greyjoy. I’m sure we all need to talk. Not that I’m not happy to see the two of you, but why are you here? The journey south isn’t safe right now.”

“That’s what I told our wonderful queen, but she stubbornly ignored me.”

“Show some respect, Theon,” Robb warned.

“I can handle Theon, Robb, relax.” Rhaenys fought the urge to roll her eyes. “And you’re right, the journey was dangerous, but I had to make it.” She glanced to the door and lowered her voice. “I have it on good authority that there is someone in your council reporting to Tywin Lannister.”

Robb swallowed, sinking his fingers into Grey Wind’s fur to steady himself. “That’s a serious accusation to make. You’re talking about treason.”

“I am. And that’s why I had to come south. This isn’t something you could hear from a letter or a messenger.”

Robb dropped her hand and began pacing. “You’re sure about this?”

“The person who sent me this, I trust them with my life. And I know they have the means of getting this information.”

Robb opened his mouth as though to ask a question, then closed it. “However you got this information, I don’t think I want to know.” He sounded tired. “The less people that know about this, the better.”

“Any ideas for who the traitor could be?” asked Theon.

Robb shrugged helplessly. “Only the gods know who. Before yesterday, I would have sworn all of my lords were loyal.”

Something itched at the back of Rhaenys’s mind. “What was the Rickard Karstark matter?”

“What?”

“When you dismissed the lords, you mentioned something about Rickard Karstark. He wasn’t at the meeting either, I noticed. What happened?”

Robb’s jaw tensed. “Treason, but not for Tywin Lannister. He killed two hostages I had sworn my protection to. They were not much older than boys.”

“Why in the name of the Father would he do that?” asked Rhaenys, aghast.

“Jamie Lannister escaped a moon’s turn ago. Lord Karstark blames the Kingslayer for the deaths of his sons, and rightly so, but he decided the way to get vengeance was to kill two boys whose only crime had been the blood in their veins. He disobeyed me, went against my back. He is to be executed at dawn.” Robb looked away.

Rhaenys bit her lip. “Robb, if you execute Rickard Karstark, you will lose all of his men. How many banners does he command?”

“He committed a crime. Honor demands justice, and I cannot let a criminal and a murderer go free.”

“Robb, how many men?”

“Three thousand, give or take,” said Robb, gritting his teeth.

“That’s what, a tenth of the Northern forces? Even with the riverlords on your side, the Southron forces outnumber yours. You can't afford to lose any more men."

"Rhaenys, you cannot be asking me to let a child-murderer go free."

She shook her head. "No, of course not. What Rickard Karstark is unforgivable, but there are other options. Throw him in chains for the moment, delay punishment until the war is done. Then you can execute him, and though the Karstarks won't be happy, at least the war will be over."

"The punishment for murder is execution. I am king, I have a responsibility to uphold the law."

"You won't be king for much longer if you lose this war."

Robb’s eyes went flinty. “Theon, if you wouldn’t mind, I think we need some privacy.” Theon, for once, left without saying a word. “Rickard Karstark killed _children_ , Rhaenys, boys no older than Sansa.”

Rhaenys held her hands up helplessly. “We’re at war, people are dying every day. Children all across the Riverlands are going hungry, the farms burnt to a crisp by the Lannisters. The longer this war goes on, the likelier we are to have a famine, and even more children will die then. We need this war to end, Robb, before winter kills us all.”

It went against everything in Rhaenys to allow the murder of children to go unpunished, but she could not let herself get lost in the trees when there was entire forest to see. The dead were dead, it was the living they needed to think on.

 _War makes sinners of us all,_ she thought, and felt ill.

“Because winning this war is all that matters. Not justice, not honor, nothing.”

The initial exhilaration of seeing each other again had dissipated like mist, the air between them now cold with tension.

“Those are all irrelevant if we are all too dead to care,” she said, gritting her teeth. “If you want to live, if you ever wish to go home and rule as a just, honorable king, we _must_ win this war, no matter what the cost.”

“Sounds an awful lot like Tywin Lannister.”

Rhaenys stilled, the roiling emotions within her trembling like a cup about to overflow. “If you care about this marriage at all, you will never say that to me again.” Ice coated her every word, smooth and sharp enough to cut. “I am not asking you to kill children, to coat a city in blood and call that victory. All I ask is you see the bigger picture, see that this war is more important than taking a man to his grave a few years earlier. If I had to choose between winning this war and killing Tywin Lannister or Gregor Clegane, I know what choice I would make.”

“But you are not king, and I cannot call the king’s justice truly just if it is unequally dispensed.”

“Justice has never been equally dispensed,” she retorted, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into her voice.

Conflicting emotions flit across Robb’s face. “Rhae –”

“Look, I get it. Eddard Stark raised you to be an honorable man, and I respect that, but you cannot repeat his mistakes. Honor cost him his life, and if you continue on this path, honor will cost you yours. Don't let the past blind you to the necessities of the present.” Her words were harsh, calculating, but she could not bring herself to soften them for his comfort.

“Honor didn’t kill my father, the Lannisters did, and you of all people should understand that,” snapped Robb. “Don’t pretend you know what this is about, Rhaenys. Just because you sat in a tent for a single siege doesn’t mean you know anything about war. You don’t get to march in here and start acting like you know better than me.”

“Oh, fuck you, Robb Stark,” she spat out, temper finally overflowing. “If it weren’t for me, you would be the first Stark to have lost your own kingdom. I have spent the past year living in a land I know nothing about, trying to work with lords who will only ever see me as a foreign whore, fighting a war I truly want nothing to do with. So forgive me, will you, for wanting to do what we must to win this bloody war for you.”

Throat tight with anger, tight with heartsickness, Rhaenys spun on her heel and left the room.

…

Rickard Karstark was executed the next morning. Rhaenys attended; there were still appearances to keep up after all. Robb did not meet her eyes once, not before the sentencing, not after it took several tries to behead Lord Karstark. Rain mixed with the blood on the courtyard stones, pooling into puddles of pinkish water. Rhaenys returned to her chambers as soon as it was acceptable.

She and Robb had been married for close to two years now, though they had been kept separated for over half of that time. When they had been together though, they had never fought, not like this. In retrospect, that time had been almost idyllic, once they had gotten past the initial awkwardness. But perhaps they had never truly gotten the chance to know each other. Attraction had been easy, the heady rush of touch enough to forget the circumstances of their marriage. Their marriage had been meant to avoid a war, but there had been plenty else to war over as it turned out.

It was lonely at Riverrun, surrounded by riverlords and Northern lords who didn’t know what to make of her. She made herself busy trying to get to know them, if only to try and worm out the Lannister spy. Among the northerners, she found it unlikely that any of them would betray Robb. The North may not be rich in gold or warmth, but it was rich in bone-deep loyalty. The Starks had not held the North for eight thousand years with swords alone.

Perhaps one of the riverlords, Rhaenys mused, walking aimlessly along the bank of the Trident. Walder Frey was said to be an ill-tempered and prideful man, and he carried little love for the Tullys. Quite a few of his numerous sons were similar, with weaselly faces and scornful tones, although Olyvar, Robb’s squire, seemed a decent lad.

She rubbed her temples. All she had was speculation based off the supposed temperaments of lords she had either never met or hardly knew. Walder Frey may be one of the most unpleasant lords in Westeros, but that did not make him a traitor. Rhaenys needed to talk to Robb about it, ask him for his observations of the lords, but she refused to apologize for her honesty. The Karstarks had deserted, just as she had predicted, and the army’s numbers dwindled with every passing battle.

A flash of red by the riverbank caught her eye and her heart jumped, but it was Lady Catelyn, not Robb. Rhaenys was not sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

Catelyn sat embroidering on a bench, flame-bright hair curtaining the sides of her face. The grass crunched beneath Rhaenys’s boots and she turned, hair falling aside to reveal her face. “Good day, your grace,” said Catelyn, head bowing in greeting.

“It is good to see you, Lady Catelyn,” said Rhaenys, pausing beside the bench. “Taking advantage of the good weather to sit outside, I see.”

“Embroidering relaxes me, I find,” explained Catelyn. “Please, join me if you’d like.”

Rhaenys, grateful for a familiar face to talk to, took the seat beside her. “That’s some gorgeous stitching you’re working on,” she said. Inside the embroidery hoop, little red and blue trout swam through silver waves, each stitch crafted with a precision that spoke to decades of practice. “Embroidery has always tested my patience, I’m afraid. I’m passable at it, but only because my poor septa refused to let me go to the library without practicing some stitching first.”

Catelyn waved away the compliment. “Oh, this is nothing, your grace, just something to brighten up an old handkerchief. Everything I own now seems to be covered in wolves, and I wanted something to commemorate my childhood home.”

“Just Rhaenys is fine, there’s no need for formalities.” Though she had more or less adapted to her new titles, it was still discomfiting to be deferred to by her goodmother.

“Rhaenys, then.” Catelyn held the embroidery up to the light, searching for discrepancies between stitches. “You’re much like Robb, I think. He dislikes his new titles too.”

Rhaenys shifted in her seat, humming noncommittally.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow at her. “I know the two of you are not on speaking terms, there is no need to play coy with me.”

“Robb and I - we had a disagreement,” said Rhaenys, picking her words carefully.

“I figured as much,” said Catelyn dryly. “Robb has been tight-lipped on the matter. I’m not expecting you to give me all the details, but would you accept some advice from someone who knows him?”

“Please.”

Catelyn sifted through a pouch, looking for a new color of thread. “Robb does not often hold grudges, but if he feels his pride has been threatened, he becomes stubborn as a mule. The Wall will melt before he is be the first to admit fault.”

“I am not taking all the blame in this,” said Rhaenys stubbornly. “I may have been too harsh in how I phrased things, but I stand by what I meant.”

“I’m not saying you should back down, but if you want to speak to him, you will have to go to him. If you are the first to back down, he will follow suit soon enough. Otherwise you will be waiting an eternity, which is far longer than we have.”

Her shoulders slumped and Rhaenys dragged a hand through her hair. “I cannot have things be sour between us. I cannot do my duties as queen alone.” In her most cynical moments, she could recognize that any power she held came from her husband’s grace. If Robb had wanted her to do nothing more than knit and bear his children, he could have ordered it. He had too much of his parents in him to ever restrict her that way, but it was an unpleasant reminder of the precariousness of her situation.

In Dorne, women ruled. But Rhaenys was not in Dorne anymore.

Catelyn left her embroidery on her lap to clasp Rhaenys’s hand with hers. “Things were sour between Ned and I for many years, after he brought Snow to Winterfell. A personal slight is difficult to surpass, but it is possible.”

“And a political one?”

“Any political disagreement is merely a personal disagreement we pretend to treat without emotion.”

Rhaenys nodded, pondering over Catelyn’s words. “Thank you,” she said, hesitant. “You’ve been far kinder to me than I ever expected.”

Catelyn gave her a small half-smile, releasing her hands. “I was once the young Southern girl who married a Northerner to secure alliances. I know how hard of a path that can be.”

She had once said near-as much to Rhaenys back in Winterfell so many moons ago. Looking back on those days, it was hard to believe how much had changed. Now, with Westeros in disarray, what had once mattered seemed trivial. Jon Arryn’s possible murder had been all but forgotten in the face of more pressing concerns. 

One of those concerns bubbled up to the forefront of Rhaenys’s mind and she frowned, glancing at her goodmother from the corner of her mind. Catelyn Stark was the bond that had tied the North and the Riverlands together in war and realm. Few others would know the lords of both lands as well as she did.

“Lady Catelyn,” she said hesitantly. “Among Robb’s bannermen, who would you say is the least trustworthy?”

Catelyn’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Which of the bannermen would you say are most likely to betray him?” Rhaenys’s voice was low, almost hidden in the rush of the river.

“That’s why you came south, isn’t it?” Catelyn turned a critical eye on Rhaenys. “You heard something about someone betraying Robb.”

Rhaenys nodded.

“I had wondered, but I had not considered – well, it doesn’t matter.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Walder Frey perhaps. He has always hated my father’s family, although I don’t know how much he would gain from breaking the deal we made to cross at the Twins. Even House Lannister cannot offer him a princess for a gooddaughter.” The mention of Arya brought an old grief to the forefront of Catelyn’s expression.

“I’m sure Robb’s men will find Arya soon,” Rhaenys insisted. “You will see her and Sansa home safe, I promise you. And then you can deal with Arya once she realizes she has been betrothed to a stranger.”

Catelyn laughed, though it was a rather hollow sort of laugh. “Oh, she is going to hate me and Robb for agreeing to that. But regardless, Walder Frey is one possibility. Perhaps the Brackens or the Blackwoods – they do hate each other enough to consider allying themselves with the Lannisters in exchange for revenge on the other, though that would be rather extreme.” The needle twisted between her fingers absently as she thought. “There is old blood between the Starks and the Boltons, but as unnerving as Roose Bolton might be, I cannot picture him betraying his own liege lord.”

“Northerners are loyal to their own,” agreed Rhaenys, “though I don’t like how much Robb trusts Lord Bolton. His bastard son was a cruel and horrific man.”

Catelyn shuddered. “The news of Lady Hornwood - well let's just say I hope the bastard is being dealt with in the seven hells. But that doesn't inherently prove anything about his father."

“Mayhaps we will get lucky and it will turn out the traitor was Rickard Karstark himself.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat,” sighed Catelyn.

“So as it stands now, the traitor could be any one of half the men on Robb’s council.” Rhaenys pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, thank you for your advice, Lady Catelyn. At least I know where to start looking closer.”

“I will make my own inquiries. That Tywin Lannister managed to turn one of the men closest to Robb unnerves me.”

“As it does me.”

…

Since arriving to Riverrun, Rhaenys had kept to her own chambers, carefully avoiding Robb’s. That night however, after supper, she went straight to Robb’s chambers and made herself comfortable in front of the fireplace.

Robb did not seem surprised to see her upon entering. “Rhaenys.” He unclasped his cloak from his shoulders, dropping it on a nearby bench.

“Robb.” She stood.

An awkward silence hung between them, both unsure of who should speak first. Finally, Rhaenys crossed her arms and spoke. “I still think you should not have executed Rickard Karstark.”

Robb raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you came her to say? Thank you for reminding me of your disapproval, is there anything else you wish to repeat?”

Rhaenys bit back a snippy retort. “You didn’t let me finish. I don’t think you should have executed Karstark. But I understand why you did it.”

“I cannot put justice on hold for a war,” said Robb quietly. “No matter the consequences.”

“And I cannot let you do anything that might cause you to lose this war. No matter the consequences.”

He sighed. “You were right, is that what you wish to hear? I lost the Karstark bannermen when I executed Rickard Karstark, and now we don’t have enough men. Exactly as you predicted.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Robb, I did not come here to brag that I was right. I don’t give a damn about that. All I’ve ever wanted is for us to live, to go home to Winterfell. But we cannot do that until the war is won, don’t you understand?”

Robb sank into a chair, forehead resting on his hands. “I know. Seven hells, do I know it.” He raised his head to meet her eyes, mouth twisted in regret. “I don’t know how to do this, Rhae. I don’t know how to win this war without compromising everything my father taught me.”

Rhaenys dropped to her knees in front of him, capturing his hands with hers. “I’m not asking you to compromise who you are. You are a good man, Robb Stark, and not even a war can change that. But if you do not bend a little, you will break.”

“Says a princess of Dorne.”

She smiled sadly. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._ “They’re pretty words to live by. Even prettier words to die by. Dorne refused to bend for hundreds of years and paid for it in blood. But Torrhen Stark bent the knee to the dragons and now look at the North. Independent once again. Victory and sacrifice are two sides of the same coin.”

His thumb brushed across her knuckles, soft as a kiss. “So we both must bend a little then. I accept that I cannot win this war without making some difficult choices. And you accept that no war is worth winning if we must lose ourselves in the process.”

She squeezed his hand. “Alright.”

“I said some things I am not proud of,” murmured Robb. “And I’m sorry. I cannot fault you for wanting peace. I said some unacceptable things.”

“You did,” agreed Rhaenys. “But so did I. I look at the world like a game of cyvasse, ignoring what is inconvenient for the endgame, and I forget sometimes that just because something is inconvenient does not mean it is unimportant. I'm sorry. I lashed out, putting blame where it did not deserve to be put. I just – I worry that if you don’t listen to me, no one else will.”

He frowned. “Is one of the lords giving you trouble? I can talk to them –”

“Robb, I’m a foreigner, married to you on the order of a long-dead king. Nothing you say is going to change that.”

“My mother isn’t Northern either, and the Northern lords like her plenty. Regardless of where you were born, you are my queen. Your counsel is more valuable to me than that of a dozen quarreling lords, I promise you.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “And besides, you held Winterfell and the North against the Ironborn. That ought to make you Northern by default.”

Rhaenys laughed, leaning in closer towards the warmth of his body. “I don’t think that’s quite how it works.”

“I’m King in the bloody North, if that’s how I want it to work, that’s how it’s going to work.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stuck with me.”

Rhaenys bit back a smile. “Forever, I hope.”

“Not even Tywin bloody Lannister could take me from you.” His fingers curled around the back of her neck, tangling in the baby-soft hairs there.

She raised her chin, almost at a defiant angle, their lips only a breath apart. “I love you, Robb Stark.”

“And I love you, Rhaenys Targaryen,” said Robb in that thick northern drawl of his and kissed her.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she automatically leaned closer, gripping the smooth linen of his shirt. He tasted as sweet as she recalled and when they pulled apart, she found herself out of breath.

Rhaenys drew them both up to their feet, walking them backwards towards the bed. His eyes had darkened with lust, and he pulled her back to him before they reached the bed. She wrapped herself around him, their clothing the only thing separating the heat of their bodies. His free hand made slow work of the laces of her gown until she pushed him away with no small amount of reluctance.

“Take your clothes off,” she commanded, undoing her own laces, and Robb grinned.

The going was quicker with each of them undressing themselves, even with the occasional distracting kiss or wandering hands. Finally, there was nothing left separating them, and Robb laid her down on the mattress, sinking to his knees.

She let out an involuntary gasp at the first touch of his mouth. His beard was scratchy against her thighs, but Rhaenys couldn’t seem to bring herself to mind overmuch. One hand gripped the sheets behind her head, the other went to his hair, gripping the red curls tighter and tighter with every swipe of his tongue. The room was going hazy, the heat from the fireplace too much, the sheets too slippery, her skin too tight for her body.

And then – and then he was gone, hovering above her body with a mischievous grin.

“What are you – get back on your knees, I’m not done with you,” she said, her words coming out as more of a whine than an order.

“But it’s so much fun to tease you,” he murmured, his lips skimming hers.

She kissed back for a bit, until the heat between her thighs became too insistent. Hooking a leg over his hip, she flipped them over so that she sat across his torso.

“My turn to tease,” she said, and sunk down onto him.

Robb shuddered and groaned at the sudden tightness. Her hands pushed against his shoulders, pinning him in place as she rocked her hips back and forth, far too slow for his liking, but just hard enough to rub herself against him.

Her climax rolled through her like lightning, heat spreading through her body until she lay against his chest, loose-limbed and warm. A hand at her hip, Robb flipped them back over, kissing her long and slow as he chased his own peak. She kept her arms twined around his neck, whispering nonsense in his ear until he came.

Sticky and sweaty with exertion, neither of them felt particularly inclined to move or bathe. Robb slung an arm around her waist, nose pressed into her mussed hair. Rhaenys absently traced a new scar on his side as she let her thoughts wander.

Love and marriage had never coexisted for her in her mind. Her mother and father’s marriage had been arranged by their families, and even if love could have occurred between the two at some point, it had all ended in blood and betrayal and tragedy. Doran married for love, unusual for Westeros, but even that had faded, Mellario having returned to Norvos. Ellaria and Oberyn were the closest thing to true love Rhaenys had ever seen, but a prince of Dorne could never marry a bastard.

Even as a young girl, Rhaenys had known she would be married off to some highborn lord, but she had never held any illusions about such a marriage. The best she would hope for, she had told herself, was mutual respect and a discreet mistress. But lying here, seeing how the moonlight bleached the ends of Robb’s hair silver, she wished she had spent more time listening to those wistful songs about love.

Robb swept a strand of hair off her cheek. “You look contemplative. What’s on your mind?”

She pushed her thoughts aside for the time being. “Nothing,” she said. Then, after a beat, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

Rhaenys tugged at one of the prickly hairs on his chin. "Please shave your beard. You look ridiculous."

Robb threw his head back and laughed. "For you, my love, anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's edit is [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/177908014986/the-crownless-again-shall-be-q-u-e-e-n-robb-sank).
> 
> Next up: we find a traitor. Is it too late?


	5. mors certa, hora incerta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were greeted in the main courtyard by a pale, sallow-faced man with eyes the color of corpse flesh. Roose Bolton's reputation preceded him: a cold man of cold intelligence, but by all accounts, a loyal bannerman. He bowed as Robb and Rhaenys dismounted. 
> 
> "Your graces." His voice was soft as silk. "Welcome to Harrenhal."

_v. mors certa, hora incerta - death is certain, its hour is not_

 

 

Harrenhal rose tall and gaunt over the Godseye, its five towers stretching towards the heavens like five skeletal fingers. Three hundred years ago, another Targaryen had come here, turning the castle into a molten death trap and making the greatest castle in all of Westeros a haunted ruin. Even with the setting sun giving the land a warm orange glow, Rhaenys couldn't help but shiver as the Northern bannermen approached the great walls. She was too skeptical to believe in stories of ghosts and curses, but it was hard to forget them when gazing upon the monstrosity that was Harrenhal. 

"I don't like the feel of this place," she muttered to Robb. 

"Harrenhal is rather awful to look upon, I agree,” he conceded, “but the curse is just something people tell themselves to explain a series of coincidences. We have nothing to fear here, surrounded by our men." 

"I know that," she said. "And I know it was my own ancestor's fault for making it look like something out of a ghost story, but something about Harrenhal makes me want to tear it down and raze the earth beneath it." 

Catelyn, riding at Rhaenys’s left, nodded in understanding. "Harrenhal was once the seat of my mother's family, House Whent. She didn't believe in any curse, but she used to say that its sheer size and disrepair made it a haunting place to live in. Too much tragedy has befallen it for anyone to sleep easy here." 

"Well, we don't have much choice in the matter," said Robb unhelpfully. "It is far too important of a fortress to leave to the Lannisters." 

Roose Bolton had been holding Harrenhal ever since it had been taken from Tywin Lannister, serving as their closest fortress to King's Landing. Now, with the Lannister forces sequestered safely in the Crownlands, they needed to draw them out to force a confrontation. Using Harrenhal as their launching point, Robb's men planned to cut off the Goldroad at the Blackwater Rush, stopping any trade or supplies coming to King's Landing from Casterly Rock. Once Tywin Lannister took notice, they would lead him into the Westerlands until bannermen led by Bolton caught them in the rear by surprise, forcing a battle on two fronts. 

They were greeted in the main courtyard by a pale, sallow-faced man with eyes the color of corpse flesh. Roose Bolton's reputation preceded him: a cold man of cold intelligence, but by all accounts, a loyal bannerman. He bowed as Robb and Rhaenys dismounted.  

"Your graces." His voice was soft as silk. "Welcome to Harrenhal." 

Rhaenys had met Lord Bolton briefly at Winterfell before the banners had marched south, but she had never gotten the chance to know him well and had heard few stories about him. His bastard-born son on the other hand, was a different tale. 

"Lord Bolton," she said, taking Robb's arm. "It's a pleasure to meet you again." 

"The pleasure is mine, your grace," he replied. "And please, accept my sincerest apologies for the actions of my bastard son in Hornwood. As I've told the king, he acted without my knowledge and I'm sure whatever punishment you chose was just." 

Rhaenys couldn't tell if Lord Bolton was truly being sincere. His face betrayed nothing, as if carved from stone. 

"I was told Ramsay Snow died in the fighting," she said coolly. "I don't know if I would call that justice, he is no longer a threat to the North." Or, more specifically, forcing widows into marriage and driving them to self-cannibalism through starvation.

"The security of the North is paramount above all else," agreed Lord Bolton. "And as I am sure your graces would agree, it is also important to celebrate the victories we have achieved in this war. A feast has been prepared in honor of your arrival, if you would follow me inside.” 

"Your hospitality is much appreciated, my lord," said Robb. "If you wouldn't mind, I need to speak with my mother for a moment before we go in." 

Catelyn had dismounted further back, exchanging a quiet word with her uncle, Ser Brynden. As they headed towards her, Robb lowered his voice to talk to Rhaenys. 

"I don't like Lord Bolton any more than you do, but he's a loyal bannerman," he said. "There's no reason to believe he knew anything about Ramsay Snow's actions." 

Rhaenys pursed her lips. "I know, it's just – are you sure he isn't the traitor? There's bad blood between the Boltons and the Starks going back generations." 

"Just like there's bad blood between the Starks and the Targaryens," he pointed out. "Your grandfather killed my grandfather and uncle, but I trust you with my life. Lord Bolton has been a good and trustworthy commander since the beginning of this war, and he may not be the warmest of men, but he is an honorable man. Just try not to antagonize him, alright?" 

"You're probably right," she said, unconvinced. "Maybe I'm being paranoid, maybe it's just this horrible castle, but I still don't trust him. I will try to be polite though, I promise.”  

Catelyn, who had caught the tail-end of the conversation, seemed as apprehensive as Rhaenys. “Grey Wind is uneasy as well,” she said. Ever since they had passed through the gates of Harrenhal, the direwolf’s ears had been plastered back to his head. 

“He doesn't like it when there’s so many people around,” said Robb. “I’ll leave him out here with Olyvar to calm down, but I’m sure there’s nothing wrong.” 

Robb was right, Rhaenys told herself, it was nothing more than her paranoia speaking. Tywin Lannister’s forces were at least a week’s ride away, and even if they did happen to be outside the gates, Harrenhal had been built to withstand years of siege. 

“Alright,” she said, trying to convince herself more than him. Pushing aside her worries, she rolled her shoulders to loosen up some of the tightness. “Would you mind if I took a walk around the grounds to stretch my legs a bit? I think I’m a bit too wound up right now.” 

“Of course, love.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Take Theon with you, just in case. A war camp can be a dangerous place.” 

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Now who’s being paranoid?” Still, she waved Theon over as she made her way away from the banners, towards the so-called Tower of Ghosts. 

“Not interested in dining with the illustrious Lord Bolton, your grace?” drawled Theon as he caught up to her. 

“I’ll go to the feast, it would be rude otherwise. I just needed to unwind from the long ride.” 

“I thought all the Dornish were part sandsteed, capable of sleeping and eating on their mounts for weeks on end.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous Greyjoy, the horses need to rest sometimes,” she replied, deadpan. Theon let out a bark of laughter. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenys caught commotion coming from the postern gate. She turned, the distant sounds of an argument drifting towards them. Curiosity piqued, she headed towards the gate, where a small crowd of guardsmen had gathered. 

“What is happening here?” she asked. 

The nearest guard, a man dressed in Glover colors, sank deep into a bow, mail clanging. “Your grace. There are travelers at the gates, insisting to see the king, but they refuse to say who they are.” 

“Let me see them,” she said, approaching the strangers as the guards parted to let her through. 

There were two of them, a towering man with his face partially obscured by his helm, and a young boy with messy brown hair. 

Next to Rhaenys, Theon let out a startled sound. She frowned. The boy seemed awfully familiar. 

“What brings two travelers to Harrenhal?” she asked, brow furrowed. 

“Hullo Theon, Princess Rhaenys” said the boy. 

Rhaenys’s eyes widened as she placed the familiar voice. “Lady Arya! Seven hells, is that really you?” 

Arya Stark nodded cautiously. “Is – is Robb here?” 

“Aye, and he will certainly be happy to see you, your mother too,” said Theon, shock coloring his voice. “They might just pass out from joy.” 

“We’ll bring you to them,” assured Rhaenys. “Who is your companion?” 

The hulking man crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m just here to receive payment for delivering Arya Stark. No need for names.” 

“He’s the Hound,” supplied Arya helpfully, and Sandor Clegane grumbled out a nasty curse. 

Rhaenys’s spine stiffened. “Sandor Clegane. Brother to Gregor Clegane, I believe?” 

“No need to get yourself tied in a twist, your grace,” he said. “I hate my brother just as much as you do.” 

Her lips pressed together in a narrow line. “I rather doubt that. But you shall receive your payment, upon my word as Queen in the North. We can discuss the amount upon the morrow. Until then, you may stay in Harrenhal as our guest.” 

He nodded, and Rhaenys got a glimpse of the cracked, burned flesh peeking out beneath his helm. “Take the brat then, gods know she’s caused me enough grief.” 

Arya scowled at him, muttering something Rhaenys doubted her mother would approve of. Theon stifled a snort behind a hand. 

“Come on Arya,” she said. “Your family has been waiting a long time to see you.” 

As they walked through the courtyard, Rhaenys noticed Arya jump at the sight of the Bolton flayed man on a soldier’s shield. 

“What is it?” she asked, voice low. 

Arya shook her head. “Nothing.” 

Rhaenys stopped walking, pulling the two of them into an alcove. Theon stood slightly apart, keeping an eye out for passing guards. “Arya, if there’s something you know about the Boltons, you can tell me.” 

Arya remained stubbornly quiet. 

“Look, I know you don’t know me very well,” Rhaenys said. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me, and those are good instincts to have. But please, just know that I only want what’s best for your family. You don’t have to trust my word on that, just the fact that I have just as much reason as Robb to want the Lannisters dead.” 

Arya bit her lip. “I was here for a while,” she said. “I served Lord Bolton after he took Harrenhal from Amory Lorch. I didn’t like him, he scared me."

"He scares most grown men," remarked Theon.

"And once I heard him talking to someone about Tywin Lannister. Something about becoming Warden of the North.” 

Rhaenys inhaled sharply. “Thank you for telling me this Arya.” Theon, who had heard everything, met her eyes with the same quiet dread. 

The feast was well underway by now, and even the soldiers were indulging in the copious amounts of meat and mead that were being served, many well on their way to being drunk. And yet, as she scanned the courtyard, she couldn’t seem to see any of them wearing the Bolton standard. In fact, the Bolton soldiers she had seen earlier might as well have disappeared into the night air like smoke. The walls of Harrenhal, which had once seemed secure, if terrifying, were looking more like a coffin. 

“Theon, take Arya somewhere safe for now,” she said, tone brooking no room for argument.  

“I want to see Robb and Mother,” protested Arya. 

“Arya, listen to me,” said Rhaenys. “There is a very good chance Lord Bolton is a traitor for the Lannisters and if my suspicions are correct, it could get very dangerous, very soon.” 

“We’ll take you to see Robb and Lady Catelyn as soon as it’s safe,” said Theon and reluctantly, Arya nodded. 

“Get as many men away from their festivities as you can,” Rhaenys told him. “If my suspicions are correct and there’s to be fighting soon, we need as many of them sober as possible.” 

For once, Theon didn’t try to argue. “At once, your grace. Let’s go, Arya, stay close to me.” 

The three of them parted, Rhaenys headed for the main feast in the great hall as fast as she could go without attracting undue attention. Sitting by the barracks was Olyvar Frey, Robb’s squire, with Grey Wind lying beside him.

“Grey Wind, to me,” she called, and the wolf bounded towards her, muscles still tense in anticipation. 

“Your grace, the king asked me to keep Grey Wind out of the keep –” 

“Alert Ser Brynden to have his men gather their arms and watch the gates,” she told the boy. The older Tully was the only person she knew was not at the feast, having made some grumbling about checking the castle's defenses. “Be quick about it, but don’t raise any alarms.” The boy’s eyes widened, and he gave her a sloppy bow before running off. 

Rhaenys smoothed back her mussed hair, trying to make herself as presentable as possible. The guards at the door to the hall had Bolton colors, she noticed, and though it could mean nothing, panic was pooling in the base of her stomach. They gave a wary look at Grey Wind as she made for the doorway, but her piercing stare kept them quiet as she went inside.

Inside, the hall was bursting with cheer, the roar of the festivities intermixing with the music playing from the rafters. The tables were laden down with enormous platters of meat that dripped with juices, large flagons full to the brim with dark ale. Dancing had already begun, the chaos of a Northern dance taking up much of the center of the hall. Robb was leading Dacey Mormont around in a rather messy rendition of  _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , but upon seeing her enter, he grinned and made his way over to her side. 

“You were gone for longer than I expected,” he said, kissing her cheek in greeting. “What’s Grey Wind doing in here, I thought I asked Olyvar to keep an eye on him.” 

“It’s not important,” she said, eyes scanning the room. Towards the far end, Roose Bolton had narrowed his eyes in her direction. “Robb, I was right, Roose Bolton is the traitor.” 

“How can you be sure? Rhae, if you’re wrong –” 

“I’m not wrong,” she said. Roose Bolton motioned to the singers to change the song. She ignored him. “Robb, listen to me. Tywin Lannister has promised Bolton the North in exchange for betraying you, and I have the distinct feeling that he plans on betraying you tonight. None of the Bolton bannermen have touched the food or drink, and a good part of them have all but disappeared. Duskendale wasn’t just some unfortunate loss, Bolton planned it to bleed you of as many forces as he could. This isn’t just paranoia –” 

Rhaenys froze, the new song’s music suddenly becoming horribly familiar. 

"That's the Rains of Castamere," she hissed to Robb, hand going to the dagger at her wrist. “They’re playing a Lannister song. Robb –" 

At the end of the hall, Catelyn Stark slapped Roose Bolton. A crossbow twanged. Robb shouted something to the Northerners. And fighting erupted. 

“Keep the queen safe!” yelled Robb to Robin Norrey. Rhaenys had hardly processed the hand at her wrist pulling her away from the fighting when she saw Robb’s eyes widen in deadened shock. He stumbled, a crossbow bolt sprouting from his shoulder like some awful flower. Another one to his calf, and Robb was falling and Rhaenys was screaming and she couldn’t move because there were arms wrapped around her waist. 

“Let me go!” she screamed, half-sobbing, but Robin Norrey was a loyal soldier and pulled her down behind an overturned bench, leaving her to watch in horror at the bloodshed that unfolded. 

Grey Wind had charged into the fray like some beast out of one of the hells, muzzle already dripping red with blood. The musicians in the rafters had abandoned their harps and lutes for crossbows. Men in full plated armor came pouring in through the doors, blocking the exit and cutting down anyone in their path. Smalljon Umber punched one of them, roaring in anger, and the man dropped like a sack of flour. His triumph was cut short when another one of the attackers swung a sword, leaving the heir to Last Hearth short a head.  

At the end of the hall, Black Walder Frey brandished a wickedly carved hunting knife and in one cruel motion, slit Catelyn Stark’s throat to the bone.   

Dacey Mormont charged for the high table, dinner knives in both hands. Black Walder blocked her with a sword, but the Bear Island woman dodged it with a violent grace. Her knife was almost in Black Walder’s throat when something very sharp was pressed against Rhaenys's own neck. Robin Norrey’s body slumped forward, his grip long gone slack, and it was only then that she noticed his quiet death. 

"Step away from Lord Walder, Lady Mormont," commanded a cold voice behind her. She was pulled to her feet by her hair. "Or you will find yourself without a queen quite soon."  

Dacey froze, eyes panicked. Around them, the fighting slowed, everyone's eyes glued to the standoff that had occurred. Many of the Northmen were still standing, but Robb, oh gods Robb, lay on the floor, limbs loose like a ragdoll. 

"Traitor,” spat Rhaenys. “You’re nothing but a cowardly, spineless excuse for a man –” She fell silent when Lord Bolton pressed the knife closer to her throat, blood beading on the blade.  

The sounds from outside were muted, the events there unknowable, and Rhaenys sent a silent prayer that Olyvar and Theon had been able to round up enough men. Maybe she would die tonight, maybe Robb too, but Arya was safe somewhere and Bran and Rickon held the North. The Northern cause need not be lost. 

"Here is what is going to happen," said Lord Bolton. "You will all drop your weapons and in exchange, Rhaenys Targaryen will not be harmed. She and Robb Stark will be kept as hostages to ensure everyone's good behavior, and we will all return North to our harvests after bending the knee to the Iron Throne. We need not waste more good Northern lives. You –" 

Rhaenys had heard enough. In a move that Oberyn Martell had taught her himself, she twisted, gritting her jaw as the knife slid up, up, up through her skin. Her dagger was in Roose Bolton's neck before he could move, slipping through leather and skin and muscle like a knife through butter. She ripped out the dagger, blood spurting out from the smiling wound to soak her hands red. 

Lord Bolton stumbled, then fell, cold eyes gone wide with shock. 

She blinked, blood dripping down over her right eye. Her body swayed, the blinding pain from her face suddenly everywhere. As if through a tunnel, she watched as Dacey Mormont slit Black Walder’s throat. There was a thunderous crash from somewhere, and the room was flooded with more men, swords gleaming bright with blood. 

Hands grabbed her and Rhaenys screamed, struggling away. 

"Easy your grace, easy," said a familiar voice. "It's just me." Theon. She forced herself to relax and leaned on him, stumbling as they moved. 

"Robb," she began, but blood dribbled into her mouth and she had to spit it out. 

"He's alive," said Theon and she almost cried. "He is being taken to a maester." 

Her mind was chaos, a mess of disconnected thoughts and incoherent emotions. Fragmented moments replayed themselves in her head – Robb's blank gaze as he fell, the blinding white of bone poking out from the shoulder of a dismembered corpse, the horrible snap of someone's neck. The world passed by her unrecognized, the ring of steel echoing forever through her skull. 

A drawn, pale face floated in front of her. Rhaenys blinked.  

"Arya," she said, voice hoarse. She sat up. 

She was in a tent somewhere, a simple cot beneath her. Her face felt stiff. She brought her fingers to the right side, finding linen bandages rather than skin. 

"They won't let me into Robb's tent," said Arya, sniffing. "They say the maester is still working." She drew her knees into her chest. "I didn't know where else to go." 

Rhaenys reached for the younger girl's hand, gripping it tightly with her own bloody hand. "Robb's going to be alright." The forced optimism tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Theon said they killed Mother," whispered Arya. 

Rhaenys could only nod. Like a horrible dream, she saw it once more, the red smile on Catelyn's neck, how small the Stark matriarch had looked crumpled on the stone floor.

"I'll kill them all," Arya swore, eyes staring blankly. "Every last Frey, Bolton, Lannister. I'll kill them all." 

No girl of two-and-ten should be making promises like that, but what else could Rhaenys do but agree? What else was there to do but hold each other tight with murder and grief in their hearts? 

Later, Brynden Tully would credit Rhaenys with saving their banners from total and complete slaughter by warning them ahead of time, escaping the bloodbath planned for the rest of the troops, but in this moment, all Rhaenys could feel was complete and utter failure. 

… 

Robb wouldn’t wake up. 

The maester insisted this was normal given the extent of his injuries, that his body just needed time to recover its strength. Still, it was hard to look at him lying on his cot, motionless but for the rise and fall of his chest, face pale and bloodless, and not think him at death’s door. 

With Catelyn dead and Robb unconscious, the command of the banners had fallen to Rhaenys, at least nominally. Leading a couple thousand men to Moat Cailin had been easy by comparison. There was nothing that could have prepared her for the task of organizing a host tens of thousands strong in the aftermath of an ambush, calming the rages of the lords, honoring their dead, dealing with the remaining turncloaks, planning a new strategy. Ser Brynden was the only one who agreed that razing the Westerlands to the ground was no long-term strategy, though with vengeance foremost in everyone’s minds, it was difficult to convince the lords of it.

Roose Bolton's corpse had been hung from the highest turrets of Harrenhal, slowly rotting alongside his dead co-conspirators. As a reminder or as a warning, Rhaenys was not sure. She presided over the interrogations of the surviving Bolton captains, gave them the choice of taking the black or death. Those that chose death were tossed in Harrenhal's dungeons until Robb awoke. Ser Brynden had suggested hanging them right away, but Rhaenys would not hear it. It was Robb who had to pass the sentence, it had to be. Handing off that duty was tantamount to preparing for the possibility of him never awaking, and she refused to even consider it.

Rhaenys slept little, ate less. It was only in the dead of night that she allowed herself to slump over and release the tight hold she had been keeping on the bone-deep terror since that night, since the night the men had taken to grimly calling the Bloody Banquet. She gave herself a few moments to sit with Robb, the candles in his chamber burning low. At the foot of his bed lay Grey Wind, the ever-loyal guard. Ever since the direwolf had taken several arrows at the Banquet, he had refused to move from Robb’s side, snapping at most anyone who came near. 

Rhaenys understood the feeling. 

“You can’t die,” she whispered. “You  _can’t._  If you die, then Bran is king, and we both know how much he’d hate it, how little the men would respect a crippled child. If you die, Arya will try to murder all the Lannisters and gods know I wouldn’t stop her, but that’s a road she would never come back from, dead or alive. If you die, I – well, the North has little use for a childless, widowed queen, and I’ve given far too much of myself for your kingdom to let myself be carted back to Dorne to be pitied for the rest of my days.” 

“Your grace.” It was Theon at the door. She didn’t bother asking him for his discretion. The two of them may not be friends, but they had gotten into the habit of keeping each other’s secrets. 

Rhaenys brushed aside her tears with a rough hand, ignoring the stinging in her cheek at the jostling of the cut. “Yes, Theon?” 

“A raven came from the Twins.” He passed her a scroll, the blue seal of the Freys visible even in the low light. “Lord Walder Frey’s response, most likely.” 

“Ah yes, the venerable Late Lord Frey, finally sending us his excuses.” She broke the seal, scanned the paper, and scoffed. “It seems his lordship is utterly appalled by the actions of his kin, and he sends every reassurance that he had nothing to do with any of them.” 

Theon snorted. “Coward. Had the ambush gone another way, he would be insisting to the Lannisters that he was one of the very architects of the plan.” 

Enough Frey bannermen had sided with the Boltons to make their loyalty suspect, but enough had been uninvolved or even killed that it wasn’t clear. With a family as large and prolific as the Freys, there was bound to be infighting and factionalism. 

“Well, Walder Frey can forget about any more marriage alliances for quite a long time,” said Rhaenys. “There is no way Arya will ever be marrying Waldron or Eldron or whatever the boy’s name is, and if Walder Frey thinks he can charge us a toll for his bloody bridge on the journey north, he will find himself facing consequences far worse than the loss of a couple sons or grandsons.” 

“Somehow I get the feeling the old weasel might even appreciate us thinning his family down a bit,” said Theon with a disparaging smirk. “By now, there must be enough Walder Freys out there to populate a castle on their own.” 

Rhaenys could hardly disagree with him. “We will have to find some minor task for the Frey banners to keep them occupied for now, but with the exception of a few, I would rather not trust my chances around them.” Olyvar Frey was a good sort of lad, though he did stammer too much, and she had gotten a dozen apologies from him on behalf of his kin.  

“You could just take Walder Frey’s head and be done with it,” suggested Theon. “You have evidence aplenty for his betrayal, and the gods know the Seven Kingdoms would be better off without him in it.” 

She shook her head. “Marching on the Twins would be a distraction from the war, and we don’t have the men to spare for it. We're spread thin enough as it is. Besides, Walder Frey can’t possibly live much longer, and once he’s dead, we can see about installing one of his less fickle offspring as the next Lord Frey.” The power grab that would follow Walder Frey’s long overdue death would be of spectacular proportions, she predicted, and it would be easy enough to lend some quiet support to one of the more dependable Freys. 

“Aye, the war.” Theon scratched the back of his neck. “Given how the planning for that has been going, give me a warning when you finally decide to murder Greatjon Umber. I’d love to watch.” 

Rhaenys groaned, head dropping to her hands. “I’m not going to  _murder_ him, he’s a loyal bannerman, which is more than I could say for others. Now, if he could come up with a plan that doesn’t involve setting both King’s Landing and Casterly Rock aflame and damning the consequences, I’d love to hear it.” 

“I would too, but I’m not about to hold my breath.” 

“It’s not that I don’t understand where he’s coming from,” she conceded. “He did just lose his eldest son, but putting the south to the torch won’t bring Smalljon Umber back.” 

"It won't, but revenge sometimes feels good enough to forget." Theon hesitated. "Have you considered what you will do with - "

"There will be no executions until Robb wakes up." Her voice was hard, but she shivered in recalling the face she had seen deep in the bowels of Harrenhal. 

She pushed it from her mind. She was queen, and there was far too much going on for her to let herself get caught up in her own past.

"It's your call," he said, though her feigned confidence did not seem to convince him.

"You should sit," she said, moving the conversation to safer waters. "You've likely been on your feet since dawn."

He dropped the subject and sat, though his movements were wary. Theon’s gaze flickered to the left, to Robb, and Rhaenys caught a glimpse of her own fear and grief mirrored in his eyes.  

“What has the maester said?” he asked, voice low. 

“Nothing new. His wounds are healing nicely, but he hasn’t woken yet. He should – he should be awake by now.” 

“Classic Robb Stark, always sleeping late,” he japed, but his heart wasn’t in it. 

“He loves you too, you know,” she said, surprising both Theon and herself. “Not – not in the way you would like, but he does care deeply about you.” 

Theon’s jaw clenched. “Must we talk about this?” 

“Oh, don’t act so ridiculous about it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’re in the middle of a war, and it’s the thought of love that turns your stomach? There are far worse things out there.” 

“And I would rather face those far worse things than continue this conversation with you,” he retorted. 

She shrugged. “Be my guest.” She merely arched her eyebrow in response to Theon’s glare until he caved and sighed. 

“He just – he was always the best thing about Winterfell,” he admitted, shoulders slumping. “Everyone else saw me as little more than a hostage and the son of a rebel, but Robb never seemed to care about that. He could be a bit of an entitled brat when he was younger, but he never treated anyone differently because of their station. Stupid of me really, to take that and then fall for the honorable, soft-hearted idiot.” 

Gods but it was eerie, hearing words she herself could have uttered coming from another person. “We’re not that different, you and I,” she said. “Both hostages to the mistakes of our fathers, both the children of enemies of the crown – well, Robert Baratheon’s crown. These days there are more crowns in Westeros than people. Both in love with an honorable, soft-hearted idiot.” 

“But you’re a woman, and I’m certainly not.” 

“A fact that comes with its advantages and disadvantages.” 

“I wanted to hate you when you first came to Winterfell,” he said, his eyes still on Robb’s prone form. “I still do sometimes, you can be rather irritatingly stubborn. But I was fooling myself to think anything would happen between me and Robb. And you – you were everything he was meant to have. A pretty, clever wife who isn’t afraid to tell him off when he’s being stupid, who could give him a dozen royal babes.” 

Rhaenys winced at the number. “Yes, well I certainly never thought I’d even care for my husband, much less love him. A decent man and a discreet mistress, that’s what I told myself I wanted. Robb was – unexpected.” 

“He’s that and more.” 

A quiet groan from the bed had them scrambling to their feet, because Robb’s eyes were half-open, and he was moving more than he had in five days. 

“Get the maester, Theon,” she said. “Now.” 

Theon all but ran for the door. In her hand, Robb’s fingers twitched and his eyes blinked open, hazy and blue and awake. 

“Hi,” she said, because what else was there to say? 

“Rhae.” His voice was scratchy with disuse. His hand came up in jerky movements, fingers brushing the edge of her bandage. “What happened?” 

Several minutes later, the maester and Theon tactfully did not comment on her near-hysterical crying, because everyone needed to break down every now and then. 

… 

Rhaenys kept still as the maester removed the dressing, wincing as the linen pulled at a scab by her jawline. He hummed in thought, tilting her chin to get a better look at the wound.

"The cut is healing nicely, your grace," he remarked, wiping away remnants of the poultice with a damp cloth. "I think we can leave it without a bandage for now. You will need to clean it twice a day, but otherwise infection seems unlikely at this stage."

"Thank you, maester," she said, standing.

He bowed. "It is my pleasure, your grace." Picking up his supplies, he took his leave while Rhaenys set to braiding her hair to fall over the side of her face. A small mirror was tucked away in a corner of the room, but she did not make for it. She was not quite ready to see the scar.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Enter," she said, tying a ribbon at the base of the braid.

It was Robb, dressed in his typical furs and crown. Rhaenys frowned.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "You shouldn't be walking about so much, you're still healing."

He waved away her concerns. "I'm fine, Rhae. Walking doesn't even hurt anymore."

"That's a rather low bar to be measuring your health. Has the maester -"

"I'm fine," he insisted. "The maester looked at the wounds this morning, said they looked good."

Robb still stood more stiffly than usual, but his color did seem better. "Alright," she relented. "But if you reopen the stitches, you're not getting any sympathy from me. Be careful, alright?"

"I will," he said soothingly. He motioned towards her face. "And you? What'd he say?"

She fiddled with end of her braid. "It's healing. He removed the bandages today."

He made to touch her face but she jerked away. "Rhae -"

"There's a scar," she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I have scars too."

Rhaenys had never been vain, had never been more than passably pretty, and she hated how self-conscious she sounded. But her stomach still twisted as she nodded, letting Robb push her hair away from her face to reveal the scar. His calloused thumb brushed along her jawline and she shivered.

"You killed Roose Bolton."

"I did what I had to."

Rhaenys was no warrior, not like Robb, or Oberyn. Her weapon had always been her mind - her knowledge the bow and her words the arrows. She had learned how to wield a dagger thanks to her uncle's insistence, but she had never fought in a battle, never killed.

Well, not until recently at least.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She blinked. "Whatever for?"

"This never should have happened. I should have suspected Bolton earlier, should have acted quicker. I should have protected you and Mother." His voice wavered at the end and his hand fell away.

"Don't," she said, grabbing his hand. "Don't you dare blame yourself. This is the fault of Tywin Lannister, of Roose Bolton, of a dozen different men, none of whom are you."

"It was my responsibility -"

"Our. Our responsibility. You don't carry the burden of the crown alone, Robb."

He kissed her for that, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. When they broke apart, his expression was conflicted.

"The executions are tonight."

"Are you sure you're well enough for them?" Rhaenys didn't mean to fret, but it was hard to forget how still Robb had looked, blood pooling on the stone floor around him. "Just because you're strong enough to walk around -"

"Rhaenys." His voice was gentle. "That's not what I'm trying to say. Everyone is to be executed. Amory Lorch included."

They had found Amory Lorch several days after the feast, left to rot in one of the furthest dungeons of the castle. Bolton had written that Lorch had disappeared upon the capture of Harrenhal, but that had clearly been yet another lie. What Bolton's plans had been for the man, no one knew, but Rhaenys got the crawling feeling she had been involved. She had yet to visit Lorch herself, having found excuse upon excuse to stay away.

What was she supposed to say to the man who had tried to kill her as a child?

"Alright," she said, trying and failing to project indifference. "Where are the executions to take place?"

"You don't have to attend if you don't want to."

"No, I will attend. I have to." Her hands clenched at her sides. Anger was easier to focus on than grief.

"Rhae -"

"I need to go talk to Ser Brynden," she interrupted. "I'll see you tonight."

She fled.

…

The executions took place in the courtyard, beneath the swaying bodies of those already dead. Crows soared and swooped overhead, croaking out warnings to each other. The setting sun lit the sky up a fiery red, and in the odd light, the towers looked like red, half-melted candles. 

Rhaenys stood by Arya and Theon as the condemned were brought out. Many of the Bolton foot soldiers had been pardoned, guilty only of having lived in the Dreadfort's lands, but the captains, those responsible for enacting the slaughter, were sentenced without remorse. They had broken guest right, had plotted against their own king, and the North was not a merciful land. Of the Freys, there was only the bastard son Walder Rivers, who had led the attack on the Stark soldiers outside the Great Hall. His kinsmen jeered as he was brought up first, and Rhaenys was reminded of how much she disliked House Frey. 

Robb made his way to the execution block and the courtyard fell silent. With the iron and bronze crown gleaming dully from his brow, the cloak emblazoned with the grey Stark wolf flapping in the wind, he looked like a king from some old story. Only Rhaenys noticed the tightness around his eyes, how he favored his right side ever so slightly.

"Walder Rivers," began Robb. "You have been convicted of murder and of high treason. The punishment for either crime is death. Do you have any last words?"

Walder Rivers spat and said some crude insult.

"You don't need to see this," whispered Rhaenys to Arya.

The younger girl just stared ahead, unblinking.

Olyvar carried Robb's longsword in its scabbard. Using both hands to grip its leather-wrapped handle, Robb unsheathed it. The steel rang sweet and pure. "By the rights granted to me by the gods, old and new, I, Robb Stark, King in the North and the Riverlands, sentence you to death."

The sword rose. It fell. Neither Rhaenys nor Arya looked away.

Nobody spoke as the subsequent executions were carried out. The repeated swinging and hacking took a telltale toll on Robb, and she could see his arms beginning to tremble with the effort, but his face remained smooth and emotionless. Out of all the traditions the North had, Rhaenys hated this one the most. She understood why the one who passed the sentence must swing the sword, but Robb had only just recovered from a week of hovering between life and death. There ought to have been someone else who could do it.

But the North was a land of strength, a land of honor and tradition. And they would have their justice.

The last man took his time in walking up to the execution block. It took Rhaenys a moment to recognize Amory Lorch. Years of nightmares had warped her memory of his face into that of some monstrous creature, deformed and terrible. And yet here he was, shorter than she remembered, his thin hair greasy with dirt. His eyes scanned the crowd, and when they passed over her, he stumbled. 

A guard forced him to his knees. Robb met her eyes, and for just a moment, his mask cracked.

"Amory Lorch." His voice was less even than it had been before, hiding an unspoken disgust. "You are guilty of more crimes than I can name. You have pillaged the Riverlands, murdered innocents, attacked men of the Night's Watch. You attempted to kill the queen herself when she was little more than a child. Do you have any last words before I take your head?"

Lorch said nothing. His eyes were shut tight. He was scared, Rhaenys realized, scared of death. After all his crimes, all the horrible things he had done, and it was the judgment of the gods that scared him.

The Seven-Pointed Star preached forgiveness, it preached pity and mercy. Let the gods damn her, but Rhaenys did not feel very religious at the moment.

"Then by the rights granted to me by the gods, old and new, I, Robb Stark, King in the North and the Riverlands, sentence you to death." Robb looked back to her. She nodded. And he swung.

All men, even monsters, bleed red.

 

…

“– as I was  _saying,_ my lords, your graces, the Lannister curse will never be truly gone from these lands until we burn them out, root and stem!” Greatjon Umber thumped his fist on the table, causing at least two tankards of ale to spill. 

Rhaenys crossed her arms. “Are you sure between the two of us, Lord Umber, you are not the Targaryen? You do rather seem to enjoy these suggestions of burning.” 

Galbart Glover tried to mediate. “I’m sure Lord Umber was simply being metaphorical –” 

“Of course, and I’m sure Lord Umber’s plans for Casterly Rock involve no fire. If we burn Casterly Rock to the ground, if we put King’s Landing to the torch, we’re sentencing the surrounding smallfolk to starvation in the coming winter!” 

“While the queen’s concern is touching, we have no responsibility for the Lannisters’ smallfolk,” argued Greatjon Umber. “People die in wars, and I’d much rather it be on their side than on our own.” 

“So you’d have us become no better than the Lannisters? Castamere is nothing more than a pile of rubble thanks to those same tactics you’re defending. Children no bigger than babes in arms dead, and you’d have us become those monsters?” 

“I will not be compared to those bloody  _lions_ by some southron –” 

“ENOUGH,” Robb roared, and the room went silent. His first war council since awaking and it had already devolved into shameless arguing. “We have been going in circles for the past hour and are no closer to finding a solution than we were a week ago. Lord Umber, I would have you speak with respect to your queen.” 

The Greatjon looked mulish but nodded. “My apologies, Queen Rhaenys.” 

She nodded her thanks, though her antagonism towards the man did not disappear. The more traditional Northern lords seemed to think it unseemly for her to contribute as much as she did to the war councils, even if she did not speak nearly as much as the other lords.  

Robb continued. “Rhaenys is right, we are not imitating the Lannisters’ scorched earth tactics. We will see justice be done, but not at the cost of our souls.” His face darkened. “Besides, I will not give the queen an excuse to abuse my sister.” 

Ever since Catelyn Stark’s death, Robb’s guilt over not having rescued Sansa had grown. Men had been sent into the Crownlands to try and spirit her away from the capital, though Rhaenys had her doubts as to their success. Stealth was not a common strength of Northern bannermen.  

“We need a plan of action, your grace,” advised Brynden Tully. “The men are getting restless not doing anything, and after the events of last moon, many want blood.” 

Robb pinched his nose, a headache clearly coming on. “I know, I know. But we must assume the Lannisters were made aware of all our planned strategies, leaving us with nothing to work with. They will be expecting an attack on the Goldroad, so that is out of the picture, but –” 

A squire rushed in, face flushed with exertion. He bowed sloppily to Robb. 

“Y’grace,” he stammered. “I was told to bring this to you at once.” 

He handed Robb a scroll, bowing again. Robb broke the seal, brow furrowed. As he scanned the parchment, his eyes widened. 

“Good or bad tidings, my king?” asked Ser Brynden, leaning forward. 

“Tywin Lannister is dead,” Robb said, and the room broke out into excited muttering. Rhaenys grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself.

“How?” asked one of the river lords. 

“His son, Tyrion, if this letter is to be believed.” 

“The dwarf again?” said Maege Mormont, impressed. “Not many men can call themselves a twice-over kinslayer. Horrible, really, not that anyone will mourn the Old Lion.” 

No, they wouldn’t, thought Rhaenys, exulting. The man who had sacked King’s Landing, who had ordered the deaths of her mother and brother, who had ordered a barely-failed massacre. Now dead. Justice was justice, even if it had come from unexpected sources.

Their cause was all but won. Oh, the boy king’s death had stirred some interest, mostly with the questions the poison had raised, but he had been little more than a puppet, soon replaced with another puppet. But the puppet master was dead, leaving King’s Landing in the hands of cowards and mercenaries. The city wouldn’t last a year. 

“This changes everything,” said Robb, fingers drumming against the table. His eyes flickered to Rhaenys. “I need to think over our plans. This council is dismissed until tomorrow morning.” 

Little had been achieved in the two hours they had been stuck in the dreary chamber, but this news had everyone chattering with excitement as they shuffled out. Rhaenys laughed and threw her arms around Robb’s neck. 

“Oh, I can see it, I can see the end of this bloody war already,” she said. “We’ll be home in Winterfell before winter comes, I can just feel it.” 

When she let go of Robb, his expression had gone serious.  

“Rhae, there’s something I need to tell you,” he said. 

She swallowed, taking an unconscious step back. “There was something else in that letter, wasn’t there?” 

He went to close the door. A knotted pit was forming in her stomach. 

“Rhae,” he repeated. “The letter – well, it seems that Tyrion Lannister demanded a trial by combat. For the murder of the bastard king. The crown chose Gregor Clegane as their champion. Tyrion – Tyrion chose Prince Oberyn Martell.” 

The floor disappeared beneath her feet. “No,” she said, her voice distant to her ears. “No, Oberyn – he wouldn’t do something like that, something so monumentally  _stupid_ –” 

“I am so, so sorry,” he said. “Oberyn’s spear was poisoned, the Mountain is presumed dead –” 

“What the  _fuck_  does that matter?” she said, voice turning hysterical. Distantly she realized that those responsible for Elia and Aegon's deaths were all dead themselves now. It didn't help. “What the fuck does it matter that my family was avenged if the price was even more of my family? Mother is dead, Aegon is dead, and now Oberyn is too, but I suppose I must be consoled with the death of a stranger? I must have told Oberyn a dozen times to abandon that train of thought, that mindless vengeance brought nothing but blood with it, but he never listened to me, or to Doran, or to anybody but himself.”  

Rhaenys’s breathing had gone shallow, her vision blurry. A dry sob hiccupped out of her, and it felt as though she was drowning. Robb drew her to him, murmuring soothing words into her hair. She gripped his jerkin so tightly that her ring dug into the skin of her fingers. 

“The moment my mother died, some part of him died with her,” she said tonelessly, after her hysterics had abated. “Doran said he had not been so bloodthirsty before, so hell-bent on vengeance.” Her eyes closed for a moment. “Gods, but what about Ellaria, what about the children? The older ones will endure, but what about Elia, Dorea, Loreza, Obella? They’re far too young to lose a father.” 

“I’m sorry,” repeated Robb, out of a lack of things to say. He rubbed her back, and Rhaenys almost laughed with the irony of it all. Less than a moon ago their positions had been reversed as he grieved for his mother. Now it was her turn for more tragedy. Oh, how the gods must be feasting on their pain. 

"Everyone who killed my family is dead. And I can't even be happy about it." She felt hollow.

"It's not fair." Those who had killed Eddard and Catelyn Stark were dead too, she remembered, and yet the war dragged on. Revenge, justice, did any of it even matter?

She pulled away from him, turning to avoid his gaze. “Is it wrong to be so angry with him?” Rhaenys asked, voice no louder than a whisper. 

She saw him shake his head out of the corner of her eyes. “It’s easy when there is an obvious villain, easy to hate them. But the Mountain is too dead to blame, and Prince Oberyn walked into that fight knowing full well what the consequences might be. He made a choice, and the choice was his own. Of course you blame him for choosing wrong.” 

“You blame your father for dying, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. 

Robb sighed. “It’s not like with your uncle, there are many people to blame for his death –” 

“But you blame him still.” 

“I shouldn’t blame him.” He took his crown off and tossed it to the side. The iron clattered loudly against the table. “It’s the fault of the Lannisters, of the bastard king, of every traitor in that city, not his. But I can’t help but wish he had done something different. Mayhaps if he had not gone south, or trusted the wrong person, or asked the wrong question, he would still be here. I would have my father, I wouldn’t have to be king, I would still have Mother.” He shook his head, as if to clear the cobwebs inside. “I shouldn’t think so ill of the dead.” 

“Fuck the dead,” said Rhaenys emphatically. Robb let out a shocked laugh. “They leave us with nothing but their problems to fix, our grief to sort through. We fight wars in their names, we make decisions in their names, and we die in their names. We can remember them, honor them, but the present is ours, not theirs. We fight for our future, we fight for our land, not for the past or for the fleeting satisfaction of revenge.” 

Robb nodded, expression pensive. “We fight for justice. Not only for the dead, not only for ourselves, but for everyone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not go so far as to kill _all_ my darlings, but what's life without a little trauma?
> 
> Edit for this chapter is [here.](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/178045868671/the-crownless-again-shall-be-q-u-e-e-n-they-were)
> 
> Next (and last!) up: The war is decided. Some reunions are bitter, some are sweet, some are bittersweet.


	6. ex notitia victoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys bit her lip. “And what does our future hold?” For so long, the future had held only the war, bloody and present, but the end of the war was dawning. She had prayed for peace for so long, yet now that it neared, she felt unsure as to what to do with it.
> 
> “Winter,” said Robb cheekily. Then, more seriously, “Home. We go home. We rule.”
> 
> “The King and Queen in the North, actually in the North for once.”

_vi. ex notitia victoria - to know, to win_

 

 

Rhaenys's eyes stared back at her in the mirror, cheeks hollow underneath. A scar slashed down the left side of her face, starting just below her jaw and carving up her cheek to end a whisper away from her ear. The inflammation was gone at last, the scar tissue having calmed down to a flat shade of white.

All her life, everyone had told her how much she looked like her mother. Sometimes Oberyn and Doran would look at her and pain would flash across their faces when they remembered it was not Elia standing there. To the Dornish, she had been a ghost, her mother reincarnated. To King Robert, she had been a threat, the shadow of her father's name hanging over her like a noose. She was a ghost, a threat, a Targaryen, a Martell, she was whatever people wanted to see.

With the scar, there was no way anyone could mistake her for anyone other than herself. Her past had been all but burned away, with only herself left standing there.

Rhaenys pulled her hair away from her face and began braiding. Let them stare, she thought. Let them see who I am, what I have done. Not as Rhaenys Targaryen, not as Rhaenys Martell, not even as Rhaenys Stark.

Just Rhaenys.

…

They departed Harrenhal with their sights set west, back to Riverrun. Harrenhal was left with a small garrison and orders to tear the monstrosity down as soon as the war was over. Perhaps its walls truly were cursed, or perhaps the castle just had bad luck, but the gods had spoken. Another castle, this one much smaller, would be built on the same spot, with the rest of the stone used to help reconstruct the Riverlands. Harrenhal was a blight from the past, and Rhaenys wanted to look to the future.

At Riverrun, they encountered another surprise, albeit a better one. Waiting with Edmure Tully were Sansa Stark, Nymeria Sand, and a septa. Arya shouted in jubilation upon seeing her sister, vaulting off her horse and throwing her arms around Sansa. Robb was more restrained, but it did not take long for every Stark to be sniffling with joy and grief.

Rhaenys gave them their space, going to Nymeria and wrapping her cousin in a tight hug.

“I thought you were in Dorne,” she exclaimed, basking in the familiar scent of Nymeria’s citrus perfume. It reminded her of Sunspear, of simpler years.

“Dorne was far too boring,” Nymeria said. “Too peaceful.” She pulled away, lifting Rhaenys’s chin to look at her face, at her scar. “So the rumors were true. One of your lords broke guest right.”

“Yes,” said Rhaenys. “I killed him myself.”

Nymeria smiled, revealing white teeth. “Good.”

Rhaenys turned to the white-clad septa. “Tyene,” she said in greeting, hugging her other cousin.

“Hello cousin,” said Tyene. She cocked her head, looking over Rhaenys with a critical eye. “You look different. More Northern.”

Rhaenys tugged her fur-lined collar self-consciously. “The sun up North is weaker than in Dorne.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Tyene shrugged. “I don’t mean it as an insult. You look good. A true winter queen.”

Tyene was probably right, she thought. She had taken to wearing her hair in the simpler braids of the North, her gowns now made from warmer wools rather than the cloud-light silks she had once favored in Sunspear. Still, her gown had little yellow suns embroidered on the hems, and as always, her mother’s ring shone from her thumb.

“Northern queen I may be,” she said, “but I will always be a princess of Dorne.”

“Yes,” said Tyene. “Dorne does not abandon its princesses without a fight.”

“Thank you for all your help in King’s Landing,” said Rhaenys. “Without your warning – well, I’d likely be dead.”

“I was simply doing my duty to my queen,” she said. “You know, now that Tywin Lannister is dead, the Iron Throne is in a rather precarious position.”

“No,” said Rhaenys with too much force. “As I’ve told Nym, I have no interest in that wretched thing.”

She shrugged delicately. “As the queen wishes.”

Rhaenys had always been closer to Nymeria and Sarella than to her other cousins, and as such, Tyene had always been a bit of a mystery to Rhaenys. Out of all Oberyn’s daughters, she had been the only one to inherit his interest in poisons, and despite her delicate, innocent apperance, she was far more dangerous than she let on. Still, she was family, and Rhaenys trusted her implicitly.

“I’m sorry about your father,” she said, voice soft.

Tyene’s gaze fell to her hands. Nymeria looked away, a hard look on her face. “He got the revenge he wanted,” she said. “He died as he lived, a spear in his hand.”

But dead was still dead, no matter the circumstances.

“Thank you for bringing Sansa Stark,” she said, changing the subject. “I tried to find a way to send a message to you, but I’m afraid it was too dangerous.”

“It was Father’s idea,” said Nymeria quietly. “He didn’t want any more children to suffer in that pit of a city.”

Rhaenys swallowed, grief bubbling up within her once more. For all of Oberyn’s rage, for all of his bloodthirst, he had been a good man, fiercely protective of the innocent. Wherever he was now, she hoped he had found the peace that had forever eluded him in this world.

Next to them, Sansa clutched her brother’s arm, brushing away a stray tear. She was older than the girl Rhaenys had met almost two years ago, but it was more than age. She had grown up in a way no girl should have to, aged through scars and tragedy. She and Arya were no longer who they once were.

But then again, none of them were.

Robb and Sansa walked over to them, Arya trailing behind. Nymeria and Tyene curtsied out of respect.

“You have the thanks of all the North,” he said, voice still hoarse with emotion. “Anything you want, just ask and it is yours.”

“Your gratitude is gift enough,” said Tyene, looking at him through her lashes. Robb flushed.

Nymeria rolled her eyes. “Leave Rhaenys’s husband alone, Tyene.” To Robb, she said, “We shall let you know if there is anything that comes to mind, but we did this for family. Rhaenys is our family, and so House Stark is family by extension.”

“House Stark will not forget the loyalty of House Martell,” said Robb.

The courtyard began to empty, people going to wash up for supper. Rhaenys was left with her cousins, their faces shadowed by the encroaching twilight.

“There is something I will need from you,” she said. “I need at one of you to return to Dorne with a message.”

…

They did not tarry long in Riverrun, staying only to lay Catelyn Stark to rest in her childhood home. Robb, never the most accomplished archer, hit her funeral pyre on the first attempt. The barge glowed like a beacon as it drifted down the river, carrying Catelyn's spirit to her final resting place. The distant flames danced in the reflection of Robb's eyes, glossy with tears, and Rhaenys felt a few tears of her own slip down her cheeks.

Sansa and Arya were left at Riverrun with their uncle, the new Lord Tully. Rhaenys, however, stayed with the banners. Jonelle Cerwyn’s regular reports spoke of few problems in Winterfell, and Deepwood Motte had just been retaken. It pained her to leave Bran and Rickon alone for even longer, especially now that they would have received news of their mother’s death, but she could not return just yet. She had spent far too long in this war to not see its conclusion play out.

The deaths of Joffrey Baratheon and Tywin Lannister had left the western troops in disarray, and the journey went easier than expected. They had already taken castles as far west as the Crag, and Casterly Rock was not much further. The banners had a new, grim drive to see the Lannisters hurt, and that would make all the difference.

The last time Casterly Rock had fallen was to Lann the Clever himself, and tales differed on the details of that event. Some versions claimed he had squeezed inside through a cleft in the stone, others said that he had driven the Casterlys out with a pride of lions. Time had made every detail more and more fantastical, and Rhaenys did not put much stock in their veracity. However, everyone agreed on one fact: it was cleverness and trickery that had won out on that day. To take a fortress as impenetrable as Casterly Rock, that was how they would have to think.

The siege began soon after they arrived at the foot of the enormous Rock. Tens of thousands of men from the North and the Riverlands camped at its base, building siege machines, shooting down any ravens that appeared. When the Westermen made for the seas, ships appeared, a mermaid sigil flying proudly below the Stark direwolf. Lord Manderly had come through on his promises and given the North its first fleet since Brandon the Burner.

The ships were manned by Dornish soldiers, captained by Obara Sand. Tyene had returned to Dorne as promised, and Doran had at last broken his neutrality. Two thousand Dornish banners aboard the Northern ships, ready to avenge their prince and princess. Oberyn's death had been one insult too many. The lords of Casterly Rock were stuck between the forces of three kingdoms, with no promise of help arriving from King’s Landing.

Still, Casterly Rock had been built to withstand sieges of many years. Its cellars were well stocked, its walls many feet thick. All the Westermen had to do to outlast them was wait.

A week before the Northern banners had arrived, a small barge had docked at the Lion’s Mouth. It had traded its wares of pomegranates and oranges before leaving, bound for Sunspear. One Lannister guard could have sworn there were fewer sailors on board when it left, but mayhaps he just hadn’t seen them all. Regardless, it was late at night, and the light was poor. He soon forgot about them.

That same guard would again be stationed at the main gate one night a few days into the siege. It was a new moon, and the only light came from the flickering flames of the torches. Down below, the enemy slumbered, a shapeless mass in the darkness. A direwolf howled, and hair rose on the back of the guard’s neck.

Like ghosts, figures appeared out of the shadows, clad all in black. Their feet were quick, their blades quicker. Not a sound was made before every red-cloaked guard lay slumped on the ground. Nymeria Sand looked down at the corpses and sent a quiet prayer to the Stranger and the Father.

The portcullis rose with a whisper, and the beast below awoke. Thousands of Northmen, Rivermen, Dornishmen, armed to the teeth and ready to fight. An iron-crowned figure mounted on a horse stood above them all. The King in the North raised a hand. When it fell, the host moved as one.

…

_Earlier that night:_

“Be careful,” said Rhaenys, adjusting one of the straps on Robb’s breastplate. “The maester might say you are healed, but I know how some of your wounds still pain you. Stay with your guards, keep Grey Wind near. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Other men may fall, but without you, the North is leaderless.”

Robb wrapped his hands around hers, bringing them to his heart. “The North has you. If anything happens, you will rule in Bran’s name until he is of age.”

She pulled her hands away. “Don’t speak like that,” she said sharply. “You have survived countless battles, why should this one be any different?”

“I do not plan to die tonight,” he said. “I just need you to be prepared should the worst happen. Greatjon may try to fight you for the regency, but though he is a good and loyal lord, he was not made to rule. You, on the other hand, are Queen in the North, Queen of the Trident, Lady of Winterfell, and a Princess of Dorne. You were born to rule.”

She swallowed. “Robb, I’m not of the North. They only respect me with you by my side.”

“No,” he said. “They respect you because you made them respect you.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “They respect me for my name, but I was never meant to be king. I don’t know if the North was meant to be your destiny, but a crown always was.”

Robb knelt by the camp cot and drew out a thin mahogany box. He handed it to her. “I had this made for you a while back, but there never seemed to be a good moment to give it to you.”

She set the box down on the folding table and opened it. Pale bronze glinted from within, polished until gleaming. She lifted the circlet up. The metal had been woven into the long, twisting branches of the weirwood, interspersed with tiny rubies that glinted like the tree’s spring buds. She placed it on her brow, smoothing her hair down.

“I suppose I was long overdue for a crown,” she observed. The circlet was heavier than it looked. “Rather different than yours.”

Robb grimaced at his own crown lying on the table. “I don’t know how the old Kings of Winter could stand the horrid thing. No, the North needs more than swords and iron to be ruled. The weirwoods have watched over the North for millennia. I thought it fitting.”

Rhaenys brushed a kiss over his lips. “Thank you,” she said. “But I do not plan on wearing it alone. Which is why you will be coming back from the battle, whether you like it or not.”

Robb grinned. “As my queen commands.”

…

_Now:_

Rhaenys watched the battle unfold from the tree line, a small contingent of guards around her. Her stomach was in knots, but her face remained as impassive as a statue. The noncombatant forces were stationed nearby: the maesters and the reserve banners, the washerwomen and the blacksmiths. This battle had been planned down to the detail, but still so much hung in the air. What if the Lannisters had wildfire, like at the Battle of Blackwater Bay? What if they had miscalculated the forces within? What if Casterly Rock had managed to send word for more banners?

Such worries did not matter anymore. The fate of the battle was in the hands of the gods now.

A horse appeared, its heaving flank smeared with blood. Rhaenys’s guards bristled, but she held her hand up. As its rider approached, the dirt-stained sigil on the armor became clear. A snarling direwolf, grey on white.

The rider stopped in front of Rhaenys, removing his helmet. “The battle is won,” said Theon Greyjoy, black eyes glinting with glee.

A hoarse cheer came from the surrounding people.

“And the king?” she asked.

“Drinking a toast to the North from the Lady of Casterly Rock’s own wine cellar,” Theon said, eliciting another cheer.

Rhaenys allowed herself a moment to slump forward in relief, tension draining away. Then, straightening back up, she turned her horse to address everyone gathered.

“This battle may have been won, but there was a cost,” she said, voice carrying far. “Many men will have fallen, many men injured. Pray for the dead, treat their bodies with dignity. Their remains will be sent home to their families so that they might honor their loved ones. But the injured are our priority. Help the maesters in any way you can. Looting will not be tolerated, excepting only medical supplies. Leave the Westerlanders be, it is their lords we war against, not them. Allow them the dignity of honoring their own dead, allow their maesters to tend their injured. We are victors, but we are not conquerors.”

A murmured assent rippled through the crowd, and onwards they went, to take care of the fallout from the battle.

Rhaenys had her horse slow to match the pace of Theon’s. “Was Robb injured?” she asked, voice low as to not carry.

“The wound on his shoulder was aggravated, but other than a few scrapes and bruises, he’s fine,” assured Theon.

“And you?”

Theon smirked. “Growing to care for me, your grace? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t fool yourself Greyjoy,” she said, not missing a beat. “Robb would be dreadful to be around if anything happened to you, and I would have to be the one to deal with him.”

“It’s good to hear my health is so important to your relationship with the king.”

“Oh, I could stand to deal with your bad health if it meant I didn’t have to deal with your attempts at wit.”

“You love my attempts at wit.”

“I tolerate them. There’s a difference.”

Rhaenys had never been within the fabled fortress of Casterly Rock, and it was as enormous as rumored. Thrice as tall as the Wall, the towers at the top seemed to scratch the sky itself. The stairs leading to the top were steep, yet wide enough for twenty riders. The lower levels were more roughhewn, meant for the smallfolk and servants, but as they climbed higher, the craftsmanship improved, the opulence increased. Even the bloodstains and remnants of the battle could not take away from its grandeur. It was ostentatious in a way Winterfell and even Sunspear were not, in a way no other castle in Westeros was. It was a statement by House Lannister, a proclamation that its wealth and power were so great that it could waste gold on floor tiling.

Golden tiles had not stopped the combined forces of three kingdoms, thought Rhaenys sardonically.

Guards roamed the halls, sporting the sigils of wolves, trouts, suns, and more. The Westerlanders had been instructed to remain in their rooms, though Rhaenys caught the occasional glimpse of blonde hair disappearing around a corner. She tried to push away her sympathy, her guilt, but it was difficult. This city-fortress was home to thousands leading normal, unobtrusive lives, and they had been the ones to disrupt it. Wives would mourn their husbands, sons would mourn their fathers, all for fighting for the lords who claimed to protect them. But such was their world. As bloody and tragic as it was, these were the rules that bound their society together.

They reached the castle’s Great Hall, an enormous room with a domed ceiling held up by marble columns thick as oaks. Rhaenys dismounted, handing the reins to a nearby soldier. Intricate tapestries adorned the walls alongside Myrish-style paintings of past Lannister lords. They stared down at her in disapproval, but their golden manes were thinning and their emerald green eyes were set too close together. The lion lords, brought low by a king and queen who had not yet reached five-and-twenty.

The centerpieces of the hall (though there was plenty that drew the eye) were twin marble lions, set on a dais taller than any man. The statues roared their defiance to the gods, paws raised in attack.

“ _And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours_ ,” Rhaenys murmured, half-singing.

“Hmm?” said Theon, turning towards her.

“Nothing,” she said.

The fighting seemed to have become thickest here, splatters of blood and gore covering much of the opulence. Rhaenys picked her way through it with care, but the smell was strong. She covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve. Torn red cloaks were strewn about, but there was also a fallen direwolf banner, a shield emblazoned with the Mallister eagle, a Dornish-style spear. Rhaenys sent a prayer for the dead, though she doubted they would hear it.

The door of a chamber near the Great Hall was ajar, and from it drifted voices, the thick Northern accent interspersed among the smoother Riverlander tones and the familiar Dornish drawl. She adjusted her circlet, more of a nervous tick than anything, and entered.

The lords had gathered here, toasting to the battle’s victory and to those lost. The mood was joyful, if weary. Robb stood at the far end of the table, nodding along to something Greatjon Umber was saying. His face, streaked with dirt and blood, brightened upon seeing her and Theon. Without warning, he was in front of her, hands on her waist and spinning her around. Several of the lords whistled as he drew her in for a deep kiss and heat rushed to her cheeks.

“ _Robb,”_ she reprimanded, but couldn’t help smiling.

“Ah, young love,” chortled Maege Mormont.

“Young lust, more like,” said Theon.

Rhaenys shot him a glare that could peel paint. Across the room, the oft-dour Obara Sand snorted with amusement while Nymeria grinned.

Brynden Tully cleared his throat. “I propose another toast.” He raised his goblet. “To the Young Wolf.”

“The Young Wolf!” repeated the lords, drinking generously from their goblets. The grime on Robb’s face couldn’t quite hide his red flush.

“King in the North!” shouted someone.

“King of the Trident!” said a river lord.

“To the North!”

“To the Riverlands!”

“To Dorne!”

The toasts all overlapped with one another, mingling together, but it was Nymeria’s toast that Rhaenys would remember, quiet where the rest were loud.

“To the Queen in the North, the Dragon of Dorne.”

…

A white tent was erected half a league from the base of Casterly Rock, the red and gold Lannister lion flapping noisily in the wind above it. It was here that the fate of the Seven Kingdoms would be decided.

With Tywin Lannister dead, Tyrion Lannister in the wind, and Queen Cersei presiding over a crumbling King’s Landing, it fell to the Kingslayer to negotiate for Casterly Rock. Jaime Lannister’s golden hand sat awkwardly on the pommel of his sword and lines marred his golden face. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of long journeys and longer nights. Rhaenys wasn’t sure if she ought to pity the man or not.

“Robb Stark, it has been a while,” Jaime said, his famous smirk ever-present. “Have you missed me terribly?”

“Less than you miss your sister I’m sure,” Robb said mildly.

This did not faze the Kingslayer. “The wolf pup has started growing into his claws I see. Keep it up and we'll let you sit with the grown men soon.”

Rhaenys pushed the tent flap aside to stand next to Robb. Jaime’s gaze flickered to her scar, and his smirk lessened.

“Ser Jaime.” Her tone was clipped, though polite. “As lovely as this reunion is, I think we would all prefer to skip the quips and pleasantries and jump straight to negotiations.”

Ser Brynden, standing at Robb’s left, just gave a gruff nod in greeting, while behind Rhaenys, Dacey Mormont scowled at Jaime. Nymeria, as always, seemed faintly amused by everything. Jaime’s men bristled, but he seemed unperturbed.

“Very well.” He motioned towards the table. “Would anyone like some wine? We have a fine Dornish red with us.”

“No thank you,” said Robb, eyes flinty.

They all sat rather reluctantly, Jaime and Addam Marbrand across from Rhaenys, Robb, Nymeria, and Ser Brynden. Dacey and the other guards kept close to the exit, bodies tense in anticipation.

“So here is where we stand,” began Robb, leaning forward. “We hold Casterly Rock. We hold your vaults, your mines, your treasured family relics. There are at least a dozen Lannister cousins of yours in our custody. Three kingdoms have pledged their arms against your family, and I have yet to lose a fair battle.” Everyone shifted in discomfort at the word _fair._ “House Lannister has the fealty of maybe two kingdoms, its leaders are dead, its finances in disarray. The most you can claim to hold over us is a few highborn hostages.

“Somehow I think the scales are tilted slightly in our favor.”

Jaime’s expression did not change.

“Thank you for catching us all up, your grace, it’s always nice to be reminded of the state of the realm,” he said. “A few corrections, if I may. House Lannister is not so foolish as to store all of its gold in one spot, and I’m rather offended that you would think so little of us.” Ser Brynden coughed. “The Vale has been quiet as of late, but it has still been paying its dues to the crown. The Iron Islands may still be squawking about independence as well, but it is the Northern shores they have chosen to attack, have they not? And if I recall correctly, Dorne is still sworn to the Iron Throne, unless it _also_ wants independence.”

Nymeria, who came representing the Dornish, looked unimpressed by the Kingslayer. “Prince Doran would be happy to discuss such matters in person with House Lannister after the war is finished.”

“And which war would that be?”

“Pick one.”

The Dornish question would not be resolved today, Rhaenys knew. The Lannister troops were spread far too thin to attempt an incursion through the Red Mountains. And if she knew her uncle, his contingency plans would look to the east, not to the west.

“The Ironborn threat is almost entirely contained,” said Rhaenys, changing the subject. “Though I do hear that their new King Euron plans on attacking the Reach. Enjoy dealing with them. Mayhaps you can take them on after getting rid of Stannis Baratheon, who has yet to surrender Dragonstone or Storm’s End. But we did not come here to argue semantics. Simply put, our advantages outnumber yours.”

“Our terms have not changed,” said Robb. His tone carried an easy authority. “The independence of the North and the Riverlands from the Iron Throne, no more, no less. We did not come to Casterly Rock to pillage and burn. Meet our terms, and your people will be unharmed.” The threat did not need to be spelled out.

“You ask for too much, for nearly half of Westeros,” argued Addam Marbrand. “Perhaps if you were to cede the Riverlands –”

Brynden Tully crossed his arms. “And bend the knee to those who laid waste to our fields, to those who killed my niece? Think again, Ser Addam.”

Addam Marbrand opened his mouth to argue but Jaime laid a hand on his arm. Though Ser Addam was a respected, albeit young, commander, it was Jaime who had the seniority in the negotiations.

He met Robb’s gaze head-on, unflinching. “My sister sent me to retake Casterly Rock. By whatever means necessary, she said. By that, I’m sure she meant to retake it through battle.” He paused. “Between the Tyrell forces and ours, we might have enough men to win, but only maybe. The element of surprise is gone, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Tyrells abandon us soon enough thanks to my dear sister. I’m sick of this bloody war. I’m sure you are too.”

Rhaenys opened her mouth in surprise, then snapped it shut. She had not come expecting such plain honesty from Jaime Lannister.

“Upon my word as a knight, here are my terms. Take the North, and the Riverlands too if you’d like. You give us Casterly Rock, leave the south be, and go back to your frozen castles of snow.”

“Ser Jaime, you are talking about surrendering two whole kingdoms!” protested Ser Addam.

“And I am sure King Tommen will understand,” said Jaime emphatically. “I am Lord Commander of the armies of the West, and if I tell the banners not to fight, they will be happy to comply.”

Addam Marbrand seemed to be in shock but nodded his reluctant agreement.

“If this is a trick, Kingslayer –” said Robb in a dangerous tone.

“It is not a trick. Truth be told, I could care less about the fate of the North or the Riverlands. As your queen pointed out, I have more important things to worry about, and you have been a rather stubborn opponent to defeat.”

“And King Tommen will agree to your terms?” asked Robb, though they all knew he meant Cersei Lannister.

“I’m sure King Tommen will see reason,” said Jaime.

“And if he doesn’t?” asked Rhaenys, crossing her arms.

Jaime shrugged. “Most of the small council would like to see peace before winter. King Tommen can hardly fight a war without an army.”

Based on what Rhaenys knew about the situation in King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister would not keep ahold of the reins of power for long. Sansa had spoken to her about the queen’s pride, her greed, her paranoia. No, hers was not a temperament that would last long in such a volatile city. With such a power void, it would be difficult for the South to mount a successful campaign to retake the North.

“What do you think?” asked Rhaenys after they had left the tent with promises to think over the terms of the potential treaty.

Robb frowned in thought. “I will trust Jaime Lannister when the seven hells freeze over but somehow I don’t think he’s lying. He’s different from when we held him prisoner.” Despite his words, he still seemed uneasy. Trust did not come easily to any of them anymore.

“Even if we decide to trust his concessions, there are the other Southron lords to consider,” said Rhaenys. “Do you think they will be willing to part with the North and the Riverlands for some peace on a single border?”

Ser Brynden, riding at Robb’s left, spoke up. “Winter is coming, as House Stark is fond of saying. After this long of a summer, many believe a long winter is coming. The South cannot hope to outlast it with their men waging war on three fronts rather than tending to the fields.”

Neither could the North, thought Rhaenys, but she could not think on that until they had returned to Winterfell. Jonelle Cerwyn’s reports on the Northern efforts to prepare for winter had been positive, but Rhaenys would not rest easy until they were back north.

“But come spring we could easily be at war again,” said Robb.

“Nymeria, what did Tyene say about King’s Landing?” she asked, though she had read most of it from her cousin’s letters.

“A strong wind could make the city collapse,” said Nymeria confidently. “I doubt young Tommen’s reign will be long.”

“What if we waited out the fall of House Lannister in Casterly Rock?” suggested Rhaenys. “We will have to renegotiate terms anyway with whoever takes the throne from underneath them, and they might be more trustworthy.”

Robb shook his head. “The more time we spend in the South, the less food we will have harvested come winter. We need to return North, and soon.”

“Besides, who exactly would we negotiate with?” asked Ser Brynden dubiously. “Stannis Baratheon will never settle for less than all Seven Kingdoms. The Tyrells might wrest control of the king from his family, and though Mace Tyrell may be as dangerous as a flower, his mother is all thorns. I cannot believe I am saying this, but it could be the Lannisters that offer the best deal.”

“So we take Jaime Lannister at his word.”

“Aye.” Robb let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Houses Stark and Lannister, agreeing to peace. Who would have thought?”

…

“Why are you doing this?”

Rhaenys, dressed in dark shapeless cloak, cornered Jaime Lannister in his tent after sunset. Only Nymeria knew where she was, along with Dacey Mormont, who had loyally agreed to accompany her in case it all went south. Recklessness did not come naturally to Rhaenys, but if the treaty hinged on them trusting the Kingslayer, she could not sit idly by and do nothing.

Jaime did not seem surprised to see her. Instead of answering, he finished pouring a cup of wine and held it out to her. “A drink, your grace? Though it is hardly proper for a woman of your status to be alone in the enemy’s camp so late.”

She took the cup but did not drink. “Some things are more important than propriety. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Are you asking why I agreed so easily to Northern independence?” He shrugged. “The war has gone on long enough, we all want to return home.”

“That’s not it.”

“The North and its allies have a ferocious army, perhaps I’m simply choosing to be pragmatic.”

“Unlikely.”

“Has anyone ever told you that it is much easier to get information from people by faking a sweeter disposition?”

“I can be sweet. I just don’t feel like being sweet right now.” Truth be told, she doubted Jaime would respond to pretty words. Sometimes blunt honesty was the sharpest blade.

Jaime was quiet for a moment as he poured himself another cup of the dark wine. Finally, “I didn’t have anything to do with the events at Harrenhal.”

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for your confession. Your family still killed many people in cold blood and broke guest right. Why should I care if you knew about it or not?”

“I did not agree with many of my father’s methods,” he said. “I did not agree with them at Harrenhal, and I did not agree with them eight-and-ten years ago.”

Realization dawned on her. “This is about my mother and Aegon.”

“I meant what I told you in Winterfell so long ago. I regret never saving them. I regret that you only survived by the luck of the gods. I regret that it was my father who ordered the murders.” Though Jaime Lannister was not yet forty, in this moment he had the face of a much older man, lined and drawn.

Rhaenys took a small sip of the wine. It was too bitter, burning a path straight through her core. “And what about Brandon Stark? Unless you plan on telling me it was your father who ordered you to throw a child from a window and cripple him for life.”

“Cersei and I – well, we have always brought out the worst of each other,” he said carefully.

“So what are you saying? You are risking the wrath of your sister and your countrymen for the peace of mind this treaty brings you? This is some sort of big gesture meant to atone for the deaths of innocents?”

Jaime shook his head. “I do not ask you to forgive me, nor do I expect it. On my list of crimes, inaction in the face of murder is hardly the worst. But I swore an oath once, to defend the young and innocent, and I seem to have forgotten it. I am trying to make amends for my sins and for the sins of my father. Perhaps ending the war will help with it.”

She tilted her head, peering closer at the man who had once snuck her sweets, who had once killed a king. “What happened to change you?”

“Many things,” he said evasively. “But I do ask that if you see the Lady Brienne of Tarth, tell her I say thank you. For everything.”

Rhaenys nodded, setting her nearly-full cup on a nearby table. “Would you like some advice from a Targaryen?” Jaime snorted. “Nothing good has ever come from brothers and sisters bedding each other. You and Cersei are a tale that ends only in tragedy.”

Jaime’s expression became conflicted. “I will take that into consideration.”

…

The moon hung high above Casterly Rock by the time Rhaenys returned to their temporary chambers. She said her goodbyes to Dacey before pushing open the door. Inside, Robb and Theon were reclining on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, exchanging quiet words over a flagon of ale. Grey Wind lay sleeping beneath an open window, so motionless that he appeared as little more than a furry statue. Rhaenys hung her cloak on a nearby hook and kicked off her boots before curling up beside Robb, legs tucked beneath herself.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Find out what you wanted?” he asked.

She started. “What do you mean?”

“I know you, love. You don’t like leaving things unfinished between people. So, what did Jaime Lannister say?”

Theon raised an eyebrow. “You went to speak to the Kingslayer? That doesn’t seem very smart.”

“Don’t be an ass, Theon,” admonished Robb.

Rhaenys chuckled.  “Listen to your king, Greyjoy.” Theon rolled his eyes. “Lannister seemed genuine. Guilt is a good motivator, I suppose.”

Robb squeezed her side in sympathy. “And you are alright? Lannister may be sincere about the treaty, but I still don’t trust him.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “You worry too much.”

“You’re my wife, I’m supposed to worry about you.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes, but when he leaned in, she felt herself smiling against his lips. There was something about Robb that left her feeling warm inside, as though she lay beneath the Dornish evening sun. He was safe, she realized. Safe, and kind, and home.

Theon cleared his throat and she pulled away in embarrassment. She had forgotten he was still in the room.

“Sorry,” she said awkwardly. Robb’s cheeks had flushed bright red, making him look more his own age for once rather than the regal king.

“I think I will leave you two to find my own company on this fine night,” said Theon. He jumped to his feet and bowed with a sarcastic flourish. “My king, my queen. Have fun ensuring the succession of the North.”

“Greyjoy!” yelped Robb in indignation, but Theon was already gone. Rhaenys hid a laugh against the fabric of Robb’s shirt, though she couldn’t help but needlessly feel a bit guilty.

“Bloody menace,” he grumbled good-naturedly.  

“He’s your friend,” said Rhaenys.

“And he’s damn lucky I like him.” Beneath the window, Grey Wind snuffled in his sleep. “I know I already asked, but are you alright? Truly?” By the tone of his voice, it was clear he didn’t mean physically.

“I’m fine,” she reassured, leaning her head against his shoulder. “The past can’t hurt us.”

“That’s not quite true,” said Robb, voice distant, and he was right. The past was not just memory, it was carved into their very bones, twisting down her cheek and down his shoulder. The past hurt like a phantom limb: somehow both harmless and inescapable.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed, pulling at her ring. “Our ghosts are part of us now, whether we like it or not.”

Robb raised his free hand to trace the scar running down her cheek. She shivered. “The past is part of us, but we cannot let it define us. The past may be set, but the future is ours to decide.”

Rhaenys bit her lip. “And what does our future hold?” For so long, the future had held only the war, bloody and present, but the end of the war was dawning. She had prayed for peace for so long, yet now that it neared, she felt unsure as to what to do with it.

“Winter,” said Robb cheekily. Then, more seriously, “Home. We go home. We rule.”

“The King and Queen in the North, actually in the North for once.”

“All the Starks, in Winterfell once again.”

The absence of two yawned like a gaping pit. “Your parents would be proud of the man you’ve become,” said Rhaenys softly.

She felt his shoulders slump. “I miss them,” he admitted. “Every day. I wish – there should have been something I could have done. I should have marched south sooner, I should have trusted Bolton less, I should have –”

“There is nothing,” said Rhaenys firmly, “you could have done. Joffrey Baratheon was a cruel, callous child. Roose Bolton was a power-hungry traitor. There is nothing you could have done to change their personalities.” She twisted to look him straight in the eyes. “Your parents’ deaths aren’t your fault, Robb.” This would not be the last time she would need to remind him of this.

He let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I would ever do without you. Don’t leave me alone in this world, I couldn’t –”

Rhaenys cupped his face with both hands. “I won’t. I couldn’t. What’s that old Northern oath? I swear it, by earth and water.”

Robb’s eyes burned bright as twin stars. “And I won’t leave you. By bronze and iron, I swear it.”

As with all proper oaths, it was sealed with a kiss.

(This was not the full oath, but they had both had enough of ice and fire for a lifetime to ever swear by it.)

…

The treaty formalizing the end to the war between the Starks and the Lannisters was signed beneath a slate grey sky. The scene was tense, with little noise from the gathered people beyond the flapping of banners and scraping of quills. Both sides eyed each other with unease, everybody expecting some sort of betrayal. But nothing happened, and when Robb held up the signed parchment for everyone to see, even Rhaenys let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“A gift,” said Jaime, motioning two soldiers forward, “to commemorate the peace between our houses.”

The soldiers held an enormous scabbard between them both. Robb’s eyes widened with surprise. Taking the hilt in both hands, Robb drew it, the steel ringing out as sweet as harp-song. The blade was easily taller than Rhaenys herself. It was Ice, she realized, House Stark’s fabled Valyrian steel greatsword.

“Thank you,” Robb said, sheathing the blade. His arms shook slightly from the effort of wielding the massive thing. “And about the other matter –”

“Your father’s bones are being transported north as we speak. It is only right that he be laid to rest with the rest of his forefathers.”

Returning Ned Stark’s bones to Winterfell was the least of the treaty’s agreements, but it was clear it was the one that shook Robb the most. He had started this war with the intention of bringing his father home and now he would – though not how he had intended. There would be much to celebrate this evening, but there was even more to mourn.

“Casterly Rock is yours, Ser Jaime,” said Robb, inclining his head in thanks. “Though it is tradition to feast with our once-enemies, you will have to excuse us for not feeling quite comfortable with the idea. We will be departing the Westerlands post haste.”

The two men shook hands and Rhaenys could hardly stop herself from rolling her eyes at the clear attempt of posturing that took place, each gripping the other’s hand as if trying to break it.

“Men and their subtlety,” she muttered under her breath.

Dacey Mormont stifled a snort behind her hand.

They returned to Casterly Rock to oversee the final preparations for departure. The three peoples were returning to their own lands: the Dornish by sea and the Northmen and Rivermen by land. Rhaenys found her cousins at the Lion’s Mouth directing the loading of the Manderly ships.

“Careful,” barked Obara at a couple hapless soldiers. “Those chests are worth more than either of you will ever make in your miserable lives. Don’t carry them as though they hold potatoes.”

“Peace, cousin,” said Rhaenys, amused. “I’m sure the poor men did not mean to be so clumsy.”

Obara looked unimpressed. Her oldest cousin had always been far too serious. “Your optimism is admirable, if misplaced.”

Though looting had been expressly forbidden, so as to prevent potential issues in the negotiations, nobody would be leaving empty handed. They had been careful, methodical in what they took, as the Lannisters were rich enough to replace anything that was taken. Gowns laced with precious stones, diamond-encrusted jewelry boxes, elegant harps, personal sacks of coins, nothing as noticeable as if they had raided the treasury itself. Wars were expensive, and though the human cost would never be replaced, a single pilfered necklace could feed a family for a year.

“The treaties have been signed then?” asked Nymeria, reclining elegantly against a marble pillar. Surrounded by men and women in armor, her flowing silks looked out of place.

“Aye,” said Rhaenys. “Let us all pray that Jaime Lannister or the promise of winter will keep the Queen Regent from marching north the moment we return to our keeps.”

Nymeria twisted one of her curls absently around a finger. “I would not worry overmuch about Cersei Lannister. I rather believe she will be occupied in the moons that come.”

Rhaenys squinted at her cousin. “What do you know that I do not?”

“Just whispers on the wind,” said Nymeria, shrugging.

“Whispers saying what?”

“They say Cersei Lannister has allowed the arming of the Faith Militant once again.”

Rhaenys blinked. “You must be joking.”

“I only repeat what the winds have whispered to me.”

“Does the woman not know her history? The Faith Militant are tireless, zealous, cannot be bought, and most importantly, disapprove rather strongly of incest and adultery.”

“I give it a moon before she’s forced to beg forgiveness for her sins and walks naked through Flea Bottom,” opined Obara.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” countered Nymeria. “I give it two moons.”

“How much are you willing to bet?”

Rhaenys tuned out her cousins’ bickering, shuddering at the thought of a walk of atonement. She would not wish the horrid punishment on anyone, not even Cersei Lannister herself. Still, she had to admit that the rearming of the Faith was welcome news for the North. The more distracted the Iron Throne was, the less likely it was that war would break out anew.

“Have you heard anything else about King’s Landing?” she interrupted.

Nymeria shook her head. “News travels slow these days, even through unconventional channels.”

“Is there anyone you know who could be my eyes and ears in the South? Someone good at getting in places and staying unobtrusive. I hate to ask it of Tyene again.”

“I can think of a few names,” said Nymeria. “You’re building quite the little spy network, coz.”

Rhaenys wrinkled her nose. “Don’t use that word.”

“What, spy?”

“Northerners are rather…touchy about them. Consider them dishonorable.”

Obara snorted. “And yet they say some Northern lords still practice the right of first night. That seems more dishonorable than keeping an eye on your enemy. I will never understand your people’s ways.”

Rhaenys could not find much fault with Obara’s argument, but it was her use of “your people” to refer to Northerners that felt…odd. It was the Dornish that had always been her people, yet if she ever returned to Sunspear, it would be as the Queen in the North, not as a Princess of Dorne.

“My people.” She smiled faintly. “Yes, I suppose that’s what they are now. It has been many moons now since I last tasted spiced peppers, years since I last rode through the Dornish desert. Meanwhile, the cold bothers me less and I find myself developing a taste for Northern ale. Much has changed these past few years.”

“Much has changed,” agreed Nymeria, “yet much has remained the same. You may now be Northern by adoption, but Dorne will always be who you are. Your veins may now be ice, but that ice was formed from the waters of the Rhoyne.” She took Rhaenys’s chin in hand, thumb pressing lightly against the scar. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. That is who you are, who you will always be.”

“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,” repeated Rhaenys. Nymeria’s hand fell away. “I will always be grateful for Dorne raising me from a girl to a woman, but it is to the North I belong now.” The words tasted bittersweet on her tongue, but she knew in her heart that they rung true. “Winter is coming. We must all be prepared.”

…

Winterfell became visible while still leagues away, a grey blur on the horizon. Even after the arduous journey, that sight was enough to reinvigorate everyone, urgency lighting a new fire within them. Even Grey Wind could tell they were close to Winterfell, his ears perking up in excitement. Robb’s eyes brightened, and the years seemed to fall off his shoulders. Rhaenys caught his gaze and he grinned.

After years away from home, the castle seemed to grow in size at a snail-like pace. They trudged on for an hour before the rolling farms gave way to the smaller plots owned by smallfolk living in or near the castle. The winter town was busier than when she had left, the dropping temperatures having driven families to search for the protection of Winterfell. People went to their knees as they passed, the occasional exclamation of “King in the North” ringing out.

Arya did not wait long to spur her horse faster, letting out a joyous yell at the nearness of the gates of home. Sansa was more tentative, looking to Robb for permission before dropping her courtesies and chasing her sister with similar glee. Robb looked as though he yearned to follow them, but both he and Rhaenys had more proprieties to follow.

The guards at the gates bowed low as they passed, but Rhaenys had eyes only for the people within. From his wheelchair, little Bran grinned wider than she had ever seen, Arya having all but thrown herself at him. Rickon had attached himself firmly to Sansa’s leg, the older girl already beginning to let tears of joy-relief-grief fall.

And there were so many more, gathered in the courtyard to welcome them home. Lady Jonelle, clad in modest black, curtsied beside Maester Luwin, his weathered face kind as ever. Jojen and Meera Reed, Old Nan and Hodor, Ser Rodrik and Osha, Septon Chayle and Mikken, so many welcome faces that they hadn’t seen in so long.

Robb all but leapt from his mount, cloak swirling about him like huge wings. Rhaenys was a tad more restrained in her dismounting, but she could feel relief melting over her just by being within the familiar walls.

“Winterfell is yours, my king,” recited Bran dutifully. Arya rolled her eyes at the formality, Sansa smiled in pride, and Robb walked over to wrap his little brother in a tight hug.

Spotting Rhaenys, Rickon sprinted over to her and launched himself into her arms. She laughed, dropping to her knees.

“Oh, but how you’ve grown, little wolf!” she crowed.

Burrowing closer to her, Rickon sniffed. “Bran said Mother isn’t coming home. He’s lying, right?”

Rhaenys’s heart dropped. “No,” she murmured, “he’s not. I’m sorry Rickon, I’m so sorry.”

Not for the first time, nor for the last, she cursed Roose Bolton’s ghost, in whichever one of the seven hells it was being tormented.

Rickon sniffed again. “You ‘n Robb came home though. You can’t leave again, promise.”

“I can’t promise that, little wolf,” she said, carding her fingers through his hair. “But I can promise you that we won’t be gone for nearly as long ever again, gods be good.”

Gods be good indeed. She and Robb would be leaving for the Wall in a moon, and though the journey would not be quite so long as their journey south, there was much that had to be done there. Wildlings south of the Wall, outlandish rumors of Others roaming the lands once more, and of course, there were Howland Reed’s recent words to consider, shocking as they were.

She resolutely pushed those thoughts out of her mind. This was a joyous occasion, there would be plenty of time to brood in the coming weeks.

Pressing one last kiss to Rickon’s forehead, Rhaenys stood, pushing him gently towards his brother. Robb, grinning, picked Rickon up easy as anything.

“How do you have a sword?” she heard Bran ask Arya.

The younger girl fingered the pommel of the skinny little blade she kept strapped to her waist. “Jon gave it to me.”

“And Robb lets you fight with it?” asked Bran dubiously.

“Robb doesn’t _let_ me do anything,” argued Arya. Rhaenys stifled a laugh. “Besides, he already said Lady Brienne and Dacey Mormont could teach me if I wanted.”

“But only if you don’t fuss about wearing dresses for nice dinners,” Sansa reminded her.

Arya pouted. “I dunno why it matters if I wear some frilly dress. All the lords already know I wear breeches. It’s not like you can fight properly in a dress.”

“It’s just for special occasions,” said Rhaenys, joining them. She squeezed Bran’s shoulder and he gave her a small smile. “Yes, dresses can get in the way with fighting, but there’s more to life than fighting. Sometimes we just have to look nice to give a good impression.”

“You’re a princess now,” said Sansa. “There’s certain things expected of us now, expected of House Stark.”

“Why should I care what other people expect of me?” retorted Arya.

Rhaenys shared an exasperated look with Robb. Ever since reuniting, the two girls had been bickering nonstop, though Robb had said that there was less bite to it than before. They both had strong, albeit quite different, personalities, and it was a rare day that they could not find something to disagree on. Still, it was clear that they loved each other fiercely, more than any petty dispute could affect.

Above them, snow had begun to fall in thick, gentle flakes. Rhaenys tilted her head back, watching them swirl around her in a delicate dance. They glimmered like crystals against her dark curls before melting to nothingness. The white raven from the Citadel would not be long in arriving, proving House Stark’s words true as always.

Robb wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “We’re home,” he murmured.

Rhaenys leaned into Robb's embrace, his chest solid and warm behind her. “Just in time for winter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit for this chapter is [here.](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/178119879726/the-crownless-again-shall-be-q-u-e-e-n-rhaenys-bit)
> 
> Aaaand, we're done! It's been such a fun journey, and I've loved reading everyone's responses. This is the longest piece of writing I've ever finished editing and actually published, and I'm really happy with how it turned out (mostly). I'm probably gonna write some follow-up one-shots at some point, so if you're interested, keep an eye on this series. 
> 
> Possible related one-shots:  
> \- Dany lands in Westeros and Rhaenys goes to negotiate with her aunt  
> \- Rhaenys and Jon talk about their surprise siblinghood  
> \- The Theon/ Robb arc is resolved  
> \- A historiographical look at the reign of Robb and Rhaenys  
> \- Let me know which you'd be interested in reading, and feel free to prompt anything else!
> 
> I have a ton of headcanons for Robb and Rhaenys set after this fic, in the AU where Rhaegar lives, in a modern AU, and a dozen more. Come ask me about them in the comments or on my [tumblr](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/), I'd love to yell about them! Or just come talk to me about anything, I have Many opinions about asoiaf.


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